Nova Roma
by The Moidart
Summary: The Dam has fallen and the NCR is thrown back. New Vegas' future now rests in Caesar's hands and one Courier turned Legionary.
1. The Line is Broken

_I do not own anything in the Fallout Universe, no copyright intended, ect.._

Hoover Dam, 2281

General Oliver slowly crawled across the floor, his usually tidy and pristine uniform was now smeared in dirt and blood. His ears were ringing from gunfire at close range in the tight corridors of Hoover Dam. The familiar humming of the Dam's generators were now drowned out by the screams of dying men and women. Oliver crawled through the first open door he saw and propped himself up just out of sight from the corridor.

He let his hand wander down to his bleeding legs. The Courier had broken through the door to the Comms room, where Lee had been trying to co-ordinate the simultaneous defence of Hoover Dam and Camp Golf from the Legion. Even the fucking Chem Fiends were helping the Legion by throwing themselves mindlessly at Camp Mccarran. The Courier had cut down Oliver's bodyguards with almost contemptuous ease as the General tried to send off one final message to Hsu, ordering the abandonment of the Mojave. Only the timely arrival of three Rangers had stopped the Courier from gutting Oliver, though the bastard had cut the General's hamstrings with his gladius before turning to take on his new opponents. One of them had even had a clear shot at the back of the Courier's head when he had walked into the room, but that fucking robotic dog that followed in his every step had leapt and bit into the Ranger's hand and pulled him to the floor before savaging him.

However hard it was for Oliver, he began to fully recognise how well he had been played. Over the past two months the Courier had been an invaluable help to Oliver; He had discovered who the mole at Camp Mccarran was, Private Crenshaw, according to Hsu he had been a prankster, who everyone thought to be harmless but the evidence had been clear andshe had disappeared at the same time as the monorail bombing and the Centurion's escape. The thumping of metal boots on the Dam's corridors dragged Oliver from his memories.

"General!" A strong voice called. "Where are you Oliver?" Lee kept silent, hugging closer to the wall. "I'd rather have a chance to talk to you before you pass out from blood loss." The General stayed silent. "Lee, I can see your feet." The voice said again, a lot closer now.

"Go fuck yourself." Oliver shouted, unholstering his pistol and training it on the doorway. The voice was silent for nearly a minute but Oliver still aimed his pistol at the door, though his arm was wavering now. Then someone leapt through the doorway. Reacting instantly Oliver fired until the magazine was empty. Only then did he realise that it was the body of an NCR Ranger, who thankfully appeared to have died before his abrupt entry into the room.

"Well aren't you jumpy?" The Voice mocked from the door. Oliver swung the ground back round to face it. The Courier stood there, leaning on the wall, with a blood covered Legion gladius in his hand. He wore a mish-mash of various armours; the arm and shoulder pieces of the armour seemed to have been made from T-51b power armour; the body armour was a typical metal armour favoured by many mercenaries who wished to look intimidating; the shin guards and boots looked like they came from a suit of combat armour; like all Legion he wore a leather kilt. The entire outfit was painted black with the only colour being the crimson cloak the draped from his wide shoulders. He appeared to be bleeding from a cut to the cheek with seemed recent, blood also dripped from at least four bullet holes in his body armour. The Courier seemed completely unconcerned with the wounds. It's like Joshua Graham all over again Oliver thought despairingly.

"You traitorous wasteland fuck!" Oliver spat at the Courier as he walked over and squatted in front of the General, his wide shoulders blocking Oliver's view of anything else.

"It's not a betrayal if I was never on your side." The Courier said, cleaning the gladius on his cloak.

"The only reward Caesar will give you is a knife in the guts when this is all over." Oliver growled through his agony. "You'll always be an outsider. And outsiders don't last long around the Legion." The Courier let out a slight chuckle.

"Well that's where you're wrong General." He said, sheathing his gladius. "As of this morning I am officially Centurion Cato of Caesar's Legion." The Courier informed the General. Oliver simmered silently, the bastard was already speaking like a proper Legionary. "Though to be honest where my century is I have no idea." 'Cato' admitted. Oliver just stared at him intensely for near a minute until his vision started to go blurry.

"Why?" He finally managed to croak out. Oliver wanted to know. He had trusted the Courier, even liked him. He needed to know.

"Rome." Cato answered simply "Do you know the first thing that happened after I woke up in Goodsprings?" He asked, Oliver continued to stare in silence. "It was attacked by Powder Gangers. I helped them defend the town, a man should always pays his debts" He added, scratching his chin.

"Soon after I reached Primm, the entire place overrun by deserters and raiders. Those two towns showed me that the NCR aren't fit for control of the Mojave wasteland." Cato spat on the ground beside Oliver. "You don't even deserve a death by blade." he said contemptuously. "If I had time I'd throw you off this Dam but I suppose a bullet will have to do." The man who had been the Courier reached to his side and drew his pistol, a 45. Auto.

"It's called 'A Light Shining in Darkness'." He told Oliver. "It's last owner was a strong, brave man who gave me the hardest fight I've ever had." Cato said, chuckling at the memory. "It feels like a shame to even use the weapon of such a great man on you. But needs must." He said softly as he pressed the barrel of the 45. against Oliver's skull and pulled the trigger.

* * *

><p>"The Dam is ours, my lord." Vulpes Inculta said softly, dropping his binoculars and letting them hang by the rope around his neck. Caesar gave a single decisive nod and leaned back on his throne, taking a sip of honeyed water. The two men watched the battle from a vantage point on Fortification Hill, Vulpes and Lucius stood on either side of the Throne with the rest of the Praetorian Guard waiting vigilantly behind it. Throughout the day Vulpes had been watching the battle for the Dam through his binoculars and receiving regular runners from Lanius and the various raiding parties along the Colorado River. Camp Golf had fallen and Chief Hanlon taken prisoner, the Ranger stations in the Mojave save Foxtrot in the west too had fallen.<p>

"How did our new Centurion perform?" Caesar asked, finishing his drink and beckoning it to be refilled.

"Excellently." Vulpes replied. "Lanius reports that he broke the NCR line almost single handedly after the recruits were thrown back." The Frumentarii raised his binoculars to his eyes. "And his tribals with the artillery worked wonders."

"I must admit the bomber was an impressive sight." Caesar conceded as Lucius picked up the amphora from a nearby and refilled the cup. "Who led the attack on Golf?" Caesar inquired after a sip of his honeyed water.

"I believe it would be Decanus Severus, my lord. Centurion Aurelius' second, our runners report it was he who beat Chief Hanlon into submission" Vulpes replied almost instantly. The fact that he knew the name of every Centurion and their second-in-command in the entire Legion was a source of pride for the Frumentarii's leader.

"Order the Decanus to bring Hanlon and any other prisoners to me." Caesar ordered. "Aurelius is to take the rest of his century to Nipton." He listed off his commands "He is to let any large groups of NCR soldiers pass. Tell him he is to stop any refugees and hold them at Nipton. Any Caravans are to be captured and their leaders brought to me." Caesar stopped to take a large gulp from his cup, finishing it. Lucius went for the amphora again but Caesar waved him away. "Send another two centuries to assist him. Tell him I want the Van Graff's alive no matter what." Vulpes bowed and went to find a runner. "Send a runner to Lanius, he is to send his freshest Century to secure the Gun Runner's factory." Caesar ordered Lucius, who now stood beside the Throne.

"Shall we not order men into the city?" The Praetorian asked.

"No." Caesar replied simply as he climbed to his feet. "Let the Omerta's prove their worth." The Son of Mars walked to the edge of the cliff that overlooked the Dam and held his hands to the sky.

"Rome is mine!" He shouted exultantly to the river. With the tumour gone and Arcade Gannon treating him, Caesar could think clearly now, his mind as sharp and clear as ever. He felt physically stronger than he had for the last ten years. The Legion too, like him would get stronger until the whole wasteland was tamed.

"Rome!" The Praetorians echoed, thumping their fists against their chests.

"And Carthage will burn." Caesar muttered to himself.

* * *

><p>Cato ran at a steady pace along to road to New Vegas, the Legionnaires keeping up with him with the ease that comes with hundreds of hours of training. Many of the fleeing NCR soldiers they passed had long since abandoned their weapons, upon seeing the jogging Legionaries they would run and hid behind anything beside the road. Occasionally a legionnaire would stop and take a shot at one of the runners before catching back up with the column.<p>

They came across a Ranger and eight troopers lying in wait for them as they drew close to the Sharecropper farms. They gunned down three Legionaries before the century turned their own weapons on the attackers. The Ranger died with two shots from Cato's 45. in her chest and a final one to the head. Leaving the wounded Legionaries to follow at a slower pace the rest of the century set off again. It was just under half an hour when the century finally reached the Gun Runner's compound, during that time they passed many fleeing people, who fled at the sight of the Crimson banner. Cato ordered his men to ignore the fleeing refugees and soldiers unless they opened fire on them.

The gates to the compound were open with two guards in combat armour blocking the way in. One fled back into the factory, presumably to warn his fellows. The second guard stood his ground and raised his rifle, receiving a javelin in the throat for his trouble before he could even squeeze off a shot. Cato stopped for a moment to direct several of the Legionaries to block off side doors, in that slight pause he was overtaken by an eager recruit, who having missed out on the chance to gain glory on the Dam was determined to find it here. The first bullet hit him in the chest the moment he stepped into the doorway. The Legionary launched his javelin, his body rocking in the motion that had been drilled into his mind since he was a child. Bullets tore into his body as he threw but his aim remained true, hitting one of the guards in the gut, causing the man to fall to the ground, crying in pain. With the first intruder down the remaining guards attempted to turn their guns on the rest but it was too late.

With the time it took the recruit to die his comrades were already among the defenders, hacking, stabbing and slashing. The guards died with cries on their lips while the Gun smiths were knocked unconscious as they tried to sabotage the machines and destroy the schematics. Cato pulled his gladius from the neck of one of the guards and wiped the blade on the man's trousers. The Centurion allowed himself a small smile as he sheathed his blade. The attack had gone the same way many Legion raids on Caravans and towns did. The guards despite being trained well did what most did when confronted by a large number of screaming, faceless soldiers who refused to go down after the first shot, they panicked and all aimed for the closest man rather than his equally dangerous fellows who were just a willing to hack open your throat as the first.

"Piso!" Cato called to the most experienced Decanus in the century. The short, squat veteran stepped up and saluted.

"Sir!" The faceless Decanus barked. In the back of the factory the Legionnaires were piling the guards' bodies and carrying the gunsmiths into the one of the empty supply rooms.

"Take the guard's rifles and guard the gate." Cato said as he leaned down and picked up one of the rifles. He threw it at the Decanus, who caught it deftly.

"Yes Centurion." Piso said in his gravely voice before calling his men to him and marching from the factory.

"And if you see anyone in Van Graff armour feel free to crucify them." Cato called happily as he pulled his canteen from his belt.

"Yes Centurion." Piso answered dutifully, shouldering his new rifle and taking a pot-shot at an NCR soldier in the distance.

* * *

><p>Colonel James Hsu pulled the trigger on his 9mm pistol and watched in satisfaction as the Fiend fell back screaming. But then the scream turned into a roar and he was back up in an instant and throwing himself the Colonel. Before the man could reach him the Colonel fire again, in the end it took the rest of the magazine to bring the Chem Fiend down.<p>

"Clear the gate!" He roared in his best parade ground voice, struggling to be hear over the near constant gunfire, screams and explosions. A soldier rushed forward, screaming his war-cry before a laser streaked out from the smoke and hit his shoulder. The soldier went spinning to the ground, his war-cry now absent. Before the man could recover one of the Fiends' dogs loped through the smoke and tore out his throat. Not having time to reload his own pistol Hsu grabbed a dead soldier's service rifle and squeezed off three rounds at the dog. With a yelp it fell of the soldier's carcass and fled. Bullets and lasers continued to strike down any unfortunate soldiers but no more Fiends attempted a charge, for the moment.

The battle for Camp Mccarran had become a stalemate, Major Dharti's First Recon Sharpshooters had kept the Fiend's from forcing their way past the ruined gates but equally the NCR troops were unable to get their trucks through the gates. They could try and charge through on foot but the losses would probably leave the survivors easy prey for the Powder Gangers in the south. And even if they made it past the ex-convicts the Legion would catch up with them before they had a chance of reaching to Mojave Outpost.

"Grenades!" A voice called as several dark shapes flew out of the smoke. One landed two feet to Hsu's left but before he could react a trooper grabbed the body of a dead Fiend and threw it across the grenade. Though the raider's body blocked most of the explosion the force behind it still threw the Colonel off his feet. Another group of Fiends charged towards the NCR position.

First Recon snipers on the roof of the airport took out the first six Fiends, each sniper hitting his target in the throat. The troopers still on their feet opened fire with their service rifles, bringing down some of them but there were too many to be stopped by their ragged volleys. A Fiend leapt over the sandbags protecting Hsu, slashing the throat of a trooper standing in the way. Hsu grabbed a nearby pistol and squeezed the trigger. The bullet took the Fiend in the forehead, dropping him like a stone. But before James could react the next Fiend was over the barricade and kicked the gun from the Colonel's hand.

The Raider had her machete held high, ready to strike when her her head exploded into a red spray of blood and bone. The body flew backwards, hitting the sandbags as Captain Ronald Curtis stepped over James Hsu's still shocked body, his riot shotgun spewing flame and shot. Coming back to his senses climbed to his knees and grabbed the pistol. Curtis continued to gun down any Fiends that happened to be unlucky enough to walk into his vision as Hsu reloaded the 9mm with one of the magazines strapped to his belt.

"Sir, we need a plan." Curtis shouted as he ducked behind the sandbags to reload. "The Legion will be here soon." He added as finished and waited for the next wave of Fiends. The Colonel tucked the loaded pistol into the holster at his side and picked up a Service rifle, making sure it was loaded.

"Clear them away from the gates." He ordered Curtis. "If we can do that then we have a chance of driving away faster than they can kill us. The Captain went and gathered an assault team, ordering Conteras to bring the heaviest weapons they had left. Hsu sighed angrily as he ordered the rest of the men onto the trucks, if he a single squad of Oliver's power armoured troops then he could deal with these Fiends in a quick and orderly fashion but they were all deployed at the Dam and if the panicked message from Oliver was to believed, they had joined most of the other soldiers in death as well.

"Ready men, we go in fast." Curtis told his troop of twenty four soldiers, the biggest or most experienced men he could find. They were armed with unconventional weapons usually reserved for Rangers. Several carried Riot shotguns like their Captain, a few more carried miniguns and light machine guns and one even had a flame thrower. The troopers prepared themselves, each man clicking the safeties off and making sure the sights lined up. Curtis pulled one of the few remaining grenades off his belt and in one movement pulled the pin and then threw it. A few seconds later there was an explosion in the smoke.

"Go!" The Captain roared and lead the way. Hsu watched as the assault team disappeared into the smoke around the gate. Seconds later there was the explosions of gunfire, the cries of the wounded and the dying. After a minute or so had passed a red flare streaked out of the smoke and into the sky, Hsu and Curtis' prearranged signal.

"Drive!" Hsu shouted at the lead truck as he ran over and jumped the passenger seat. The driver sparked the truck into action and pushed his feet onto the accelerator. The truck built up speed and into the smoke. As they drove through Hsu noticed dozens, maybe hundreds of small cannisters clustered around the base of the gate. The bodies were everywhere, dozens upon dozens of Fiends and several of Curtis' men. When they turned onto the road and out of the smoke they found Curtis and three of his men waiting by the side of the road. The truck slowed down for the men to climb into the back.

"Best move quickly sir!" Curtis shouted, moving up to the window to the cab. "The Fiend's will be re-grouping now."

"This all that's left?" Hsu asked getting a nod as an answer from the Captain. James twisted to look in the wing mirror. The last of the convoy pulled out of Camp Mccarran, holding the remaining seventy members of the garrison.

"How long until we reach the Mojave Outpost?" Hsu asked the driver.

"A couple hours at least sir." She answered. Hsu flicked the truck's radio into life. After a few moments of static the old ham radio found the signal.

"_This is General Lee Oliver._" The NCR commander's voice came out of the speakers. "_The line was broken, the Dam has fallen. We cannot hold back the Legion._" The voice paused, Hsu could hear muffled shouting and gunshots.

"_I am ordering the retreat._" The voice paused again, as if saying the words pained it. "_All NCR personnels are hereby ordered to..._" There was a crash and Oliver's voice trailed away, several gunshots rang out, close to the radio this time. "_Retreat to the Mojave Outpost with all haste._" Oliver's voice came back, frantic and nearly drowned out by a cry of pain in the background. "_Colonel James Hsu is now appointed acting commander of Mojave division of the New California Republic..._" There was a cry from Oliver and a crash as whatever the radio had been resting on was sent flying against the wall. Only silence followed, at least for half a minute.

"_This is General Lee Oliver. The line was broken..._"

* * *

><p><em>Please read and review<em>


	2. The Field of Mars

Ringo was tired to his core. It had been four bone wearying days of walking, fighting Fiends and putting up the Van Graffs, and he was still not sure which one he hated more. The trader slowly thumbed the edge of his wide brimmed hat with one hand while the other rested on his 9mm pistol at his belt. The magazine was full and his thumbed itched above the safety. His eyes scanned his surroundings, like nearly everywhere else in the Mojave Wasteland it was full of dirt and pebbles, with the occasional rock and odd bit of foliage peppered around the place. Tall mountains rose up on either side of them, the path twisting and turning. They were in the mountain paths near Nipton by now, having swung wide yesterday to avoid using any roads that passed by the Correctional Facility.

"Ringo." Alice McLafferty called. "Is something wrong?" She asked.

"Nothing Ma'am." Ringo reassuringly pulled his hand away from the gun. He was on edge, everyone was. Well everyone other than Ms. McLafferty, who somehow maintained a serene calmness throughout the four days of attacks by Fiends and then Powder Gangers as the fleeing Caravaneers passed through their territory and Jean-Baptise Cutting, who seemed to enjoy the fighting.

"We're out of Powder Ganger territory." Ringo heard Simon, one of the Van Graff's men and temporary scout for the fleeing column shout back to Alice McLafferty and Gloria Van Graff, who marched side by side near the front of the group. "With luck we'll be at the Outpost a couple hours after nightfall." The two leaders of the column simply nodded at Simon. Ringo was overjoyed at the news, though he kept it to himself.

When he joined up with the Crimson Caravan he knew there would be some fighting against Raiders, rival Caravan companies or the occasional piece of pissed off wildlife. He knew when he accepted the trade routes on the edges of NCR territory it would become more dangerous. He had not been expecting to have his entire caravan slaughtered by Powder Gangers, be forced to hide in an old gas station, help form a militia, make a one man hike through Raider and Legion infested territory and then make a four day march through Chem Fiend and Powder Ganger attacks. Once he got back to the core regions he would stay there, Ringo decided.

"You got any water?" Simon's voice snapped Ringo out from his thoughts. The Caravaneer nodded and reached down to a canteen at his side.

"Should be some left in there." He told the Van Graff guard as he passed over the water.

"Thanks." Simon said gratefully before taking a swig. "Powder Ganger's shot a whole in mine." Explained Simon as he passed it back. Simon fell in besides Ringo as they continued their march.

"You worked with any Caravans before?" Ringo asked, not wanting to wait for an awkward silence to start.

"Couple." Simon replied simply. "Pay was never good enough for the risks."

"Can't disagree with you there." Ringo chuckled to himself. "How long you been with the Van Graffs?" The trader inquired.

"Two years round about." Simon answered. "Worked with a Merc company out of New Reno. Pay was good, jobs were fun." The guard turned and spat on the ground. "Van Graffs marched into your bar, gave us a simple choice: work for them or have our balls turned to ash."

"Seems you made a good choice." Ringo remarked.

"Pays better and the jobs are..." Simon's voice trailed away as they turned a corner. A single man stood on path, his arms crossed, though he looked ready to burst into action in the blink of an eye. His face was covered with piece of cloth, his eyes hidden by goggles. Upon his wide shoulders rested the crimson armour of the Legion.

"Simon, what's wrong?" Gloria asked as she turned the corner. "Shit." She said involuntary when she spotted the faceless soldier.

"Ave, Crimson Caravan." The man called. Ringo's eyes scanned around, as far as he could see the soldier was alone. Jean-Baptise shouldered his way through the column.

"What's the fuss?" He demanded. His sister nodded towards the member of the Legion, blocking the way. "Shit." Cutting echoed his sister.

"What can we do for you?" McLafferty asked, her face and voice serene as always.

"Caesar extends his hospitality." The man answered. Jean-Baptise spat on the ground.

"Caesar ain't got any hospitality." Cutting said, eyeing the Legionnaire suspiciously. "What if we have... pressing matters to attend to?" Gloria inquired.

"Caesar's hospitality is not optional." A growl replied to the question. Ringo felt his hand wrap around his 9mm, others around him seemed to do the same.

"Might I ask who you are soldier?" Alice smiled at the Legionary, though what the man's reaction to it was hidden by his face cloth.

"Decanus Dead Sea, Third Contubernia, First Century, Third Cohort." He answered almost instantly, Legionnaires were nothing if not disciplined Ringo thought.

"Well, Dead Sea." Alice crossed her arms. "What does Caesar want with us?"

"You do not question the will of Caesar!" Dead Sea barked, his hand dropping to the machete at his side.

"Let's kill the bastard." Cutting growled, he was only armed with a combat knife at his side, though he looked ready to fight regardless. Seemingly hearing Jean-Baptise's suggestion Dead Sea waved his arm and if on cue over a dozen Legionaries appeared seemingly out of nowhere at the rocks above them. Two more stepped up from behind a bush and took up flanking positions on either side of the Decanus.

"You are to surrender your arms." Dead Sea commanded, the man's tone was one that brooked no argument. Ringo glanced round at McLafferty for orders. He did not overly like the idea of getting a javelin in the stomach or a machete to the skull but if ordered he would fight his way to the Mojave Outpost, or at least try to.

"Do as he says." Alice told her people, giving a slight nod of assent towards the Decanus. Relieved, Ringo unclipped the holster from his belt and let it fall to the ground, the other Crimson Caravan employees followed suit.

"Are you fucking stupid?" Cutting demanded of Alice, who did not deign to reply. "These crazy fucks will crucify us." He nearly shouted at her.

"The Legion has no quarrel with The Crimson Caravan." Alice said in her calm business like manner as she took a step towards Dead Sea. "I submit myself to Caesar's hospitality." She told the soldier, taking care to pronounce it the Legion way.

"Well we fucking ain't!" Jean-Baptise shouted, looking to his sister for support, who had remained silent during the entire encounter.

"Blast the fuckers." She agreed simply. Simon seemingly took this as an order, his hand shooting up to grab the plasma rifle slung across his back. Before he could pull it out of its sling, a javelin flew in from above, embedding itself in his armpit. The Van Graff thug fell to the ground where he lay, screaming in pain. He was the only one of the tired guards to react, several had gone for their rifles or pistols though they stood stock still, staring at their dying comrade. The men of the Legion and the Van Graff guards now stared at each other tensely. The Legionaries' finger itched above their triggers, their arms pulled back, ready to throw their pila ready to throw. The silence continued and Ringo suddenly wished he hadn't lost his gun. Dead Sea held his hand up, ready to give the order.

"Maybe we can resolve this peacefully?" McLafferty ventured, raising her hands in an attempt to calm the situation. Dead Sea seemed to relent, slowly lowering his hand. Then Jean-Baptise ruined it all. He lunged for the still moaning Simon's plasma rifle. Dead Sea's hand cut down and the Legion opened fire.

There were only fourteen men and women still working for the Van Graffs after the four day had taken its toll, and each and everyone of them died. Javelins and bullets rained down from above, cutting, shearing and biting into flesh. It took less than ten seconds, more than half fell before they even had their weapons in hand. A couple managed pull their triggers, though all but one went wide and even that only grazed the arm of a Legionary.

The two men at Dead Sea's side rushed forwards, each one charging at a different Van Graff sibling. Gloria fell to the ground from a right hook before she had time to react. She tried to rise and received a kick to the ribs for her trouble. Cutting leaned away from the blow aimed at him and struck out with his combat knife. The Legionary leapt back, the knife scraping along his chest armour. Another legionary moved in from behind and cracked the butt of his spear again Cutting's skull. The big man fell to his knees where the two Legionaries continued to beat him until he was unconscious.

"Tie them!" Dead Sea ordered the two men who had previously been at his side. The Legionaries pulled small pieces of rope from their pouches and bound the Van Graff siblings' hands and feet. During the skirmish many of the Crimson Caravan employees threw themselves on the ground to avoid any bullets, they now climbed back to their feet to find Legionaries towering over them. One grabbed Ringo by the shoulders and thrust him down the road.

"Onwards to Caesar's hospitality." Ringo muttered to himself.

* * *

><p>Caesar stood, his back straight, his cloak billowing in the cold wind. His piercing, ice blue eyes gazed over what used to be the share cropper farms outside New Vegas. His fists were clenched at his side. Whatever plants or corn that had been growing on the farms before had now been trampled by the thousands of Legionaries, who stood straight backed in the twilight sun.<p>

"Men of the Legion!" His voice was loud, crisp and clear. "We have a burden! That burden is a sacred one, a divine one! Mars has given us the duty to pacify the wasteland!" Caesar started to pace up and down the stage, past the stony faces of the Praetorians, the devious eyes of Vulpes Inculta, the gold mask of Lanius and the scarred face of Cato. "Before I came you were aimless, worthless and without dignity! You were fractured, divided, weak! You were Blackfoots, Sun Dogs, Hidebarks, Fredonians and Tall Spears. But that weakness is gone! Now you are Legion!" He stopped for a moment as the last word was echoed by every man assembled. They spoke with one thunderous voice that rang out, bouncing off the walls of New Vegas and echoing back.

"Now you have an aim! Now you have worth! Now you have dignity! Now you are united! You are strong!" This evoked a roar that shook the stage. Caesar had practised for years to speak louder and clearer, as was necessary with a growing army. However now, no man's voice could reach those who stood on the fringes of his vast army. Vulpes had convinced him to place some speakers across the grounds so every man could hear his speech. "That dignity and strength was shattered upon the Hoover Dam four years ago." Caesar paused and stared down his Aquiline nose at the men of the Legion, veterans of the first battle shuffled uncomfortably or looked at the ground.

"But we have rebuilt out strength and we have regained our Dignity!" The Legionaries cheered again, the shame of the previous moment forgotten. "You fought and shed blood for the Legion. And you have triumphed!" The men roared again. "The Legion triumphed but certain men have excelled themselves!" Again the Legionaries cheered, looking forwards to the commendations that followed most major battles.

"Legionary Porcino, First Century, Second Cohort!" Caesar's voice rang out. "Come forwards!" A man detached from group to the left of the stage and jogged to the stage. Caesar studied the man with sharp eyes. He was tall and broad, thickly muscled and tanned like most of the Legion. His arms and face showed obvious signs of fighting. The Son of Mars knew off by heart the names and position of every man who was to receive a commendation that day, each man having been recommended for rewards by his Centurion or Vulpes. The man stopped just in front of the stage.

"Legionary, you have been recommended by your Centurion for bravery, skill and courage." The man stared up at Caesar with devotion in his eyes. "You defeated two Rangers in unarmed combat at the Dam." His comrades cheered this. Caesar held up a hand to silence them. "For this you are to be rewarded with five slaves of your choice." The man bowed his head.

"Thank you, Caesar." Porcino said, bowing even lower, his voice wavering.

"Rise, come stand with me." The Legionary beamed like a child being given all he could wish for. Porcino was standing beside Caesar in a matter of seconds. The Son of Mars nodded to Lucius, who took a step forwards and handed a gladius taken from a small chest at the side of the stage.

"Here." Caesar said, placing the sword in Porcino's hand. "A gift for your courage." The Legionary held it almost fervently as he bowed and made his way back to his Century. This continued on for some time, with over sixty men gaining commendations, with Porcino's being a surprisingly small act when compared to the others. As the last man, Decanus Severus of the First Century of the Third Cohort walked back to his original position, Centurion's harness and a gladius in his hands.

"Centurion Cato Viator." Caesar called turning to look at the man who had once been the Courier. He stepped forwards. "You have helped bring us victory." Cato simply nodded calmly to this recognition. "You have brought two new tribes into the Legion. You personally slew dozens at the Hoover Dam! You shamed and destroyed the Brotherhood of Steel and have taken the heads of President Kimball, Mr. House and General Oliver!" There was a cheer from the Legionaries. "You have helped the Legion immeasurably. You have helped change this place from a city of waste and excess to a city of strength and discipline. You have helped create Nova Roma. For this, as I once gave Lanius the mask of Mars, I give the mask of Lupa Capitolina." Lucius stepped forwards, a armoured mask of a snarling wolf in his hand.

"Thank you, Caesar." Cato bowed and accepted the mask gratefully.

"As a final reward for your service to the Legion, a new Aureus shall be minted in your honour." Caesar reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a single gold coin. Cato's hook nose and strong jaw stuck out, the engraver had even included the criss crossing scars on his cheek and the signs of the bullet wounds on his forehead. The words _Cato Salvator. _On the opposite was a carving of Hoover Dam with the words_ Vae Victis _inscribed above it.

"Thank you, Caesar." Cato repeated, bowing deeply. Caesar nodded and waved Cato back to his place.

"And finally to commemorate our victory." The Son of Mars beckoned to Vulpes who marched to the back of the stage and dragged an elderly, wiry muscled man in a brown vest and trousers.

"I give you Chief Hanlon, commander of the NCR Rangers!" The Legion roared thunderously. Lanius stepped forwards, reaching for his sword. Caesar stopped him with a raised hand. He then turned his hand and held it towards Lucius. The Praetorian leader reached into the chest and pulled out a huge blade the size of Lanius'. Usually Caesar left the killing to others but today was special, today he felt strong. Caesar gripped the blade firmly in his hands, a sword feeling almost alien in his hands after all these years. The Legion watched in silent expectations. Vulpes passed the Chief over to two Praetorians, who pushed Hanlon to his knees and held them there.

"Fuck you!" Hanlon spat on the stage. Roaring, Caesar brought the blade down on Hanlon's bare neck. There was an eruption of blood as the head came free with a single swing. Caesar raised his hands to the sky, one fist still encircled around the sword, blood dripping onto his face. He felt the cheers of the Legion shake his entire body. The Legion had triumphed, he had triumphed. Caesar's Legion could not be stopped, would not be stopped for as long as the man who had been Edward Sallow lived. All opposition, anything that opposed the Legion, anything that opposed civilisation would be crushed. For the first time since the failure of Hoover Dam, Caesar was happy.

Lanius took a step to stand beside his Caesar, his battle scarred armour clinking the behemoth moved. In one fluid movement the Legate drew the Blade of the East.

"MARS!" He roared his voice deafening and harsh. Every single man of the Legion drew their weapons as one and thrust them to the sky.

"EXULTE!" They roared back, their combined voices shaking the stage. Caesar raised his hands to the sky as Hanlon's blood poured into a large bowl at the foot of the stage.

"MARS!" Lanius bellowed, his voice louder than before, his sword thrust higher.

"EXULTE!" The Legion screamed, Cato's voice louder than any other.

* * *

><p>Caesar sat down with a rare smile. The twilight sun drifted through the entrance, splashing onto the shoulders of two Praetorians and the back of a grinning Cato, who seemed rather pleased with his new mask.<p>

"Who's a good boy?" Caesar smirked. His clothes were still stained with spots of Hanlon's blood.

"Woof!" Rex replied happily, placing his paws on Caesar's knees. The other Cyber Dog, the one Cato called Roxie lay at the Centurion's feet. Caesar had been delighted to find his old companion with a loyal soldier such as Cato. The other dog was a mystery, she seemingly newly made, something Caesar found hard to believe. However Cato remained tight lipped about it and Caesar was not inclined to force the issue. Caesar gave Rex a final stroke on the neck before pointing at Cato. Rex licked his old master on the chin before lying down next to Roxie.

"My men have sorted out the residents of Freeside." Vulpes Inculta said coolly from the side, a cup of water in his hand. "Several dozen had to be executed due to their extreme addictions. More are too old to be of any use." Vulpes stopped to take a sip of water. "But there are several hundred who would make good slaves and nearly four hundred young men and children who would make promising recruits."

"Good." Caesar said nodding. "What about the Kings?" The Leader of the Frumentarii sighed loudly.

"They have refused to join the Legion." Silence filled the tent, Caesar's face scrunched up and he leaned forwards on his throne. The silence dragged on as Caesar gazed angrily into space.

"Crucify them." Lanius offered, his voice a threatening growl as usual.

"Enslave them." Vulpes grunted, scratching his chin. "They refused to be equals, so let them be less." Cato nodded in agreement and from the sounds of it Lanius was frowning, if it was possible. The idea hung in the air, Caesar continued to stare at nothing in particular.

"Have it done." He eventually agreed with an order to Vulpes. "Next thing. I want the Fiends eradicated."

"I will see to it personally." The growl from underneath Lanius' mask promised. Cato dropped to his knee, the sudden movement causing Lucius to snap into action, raising his hands for battle.

"I beg the opportunity to lead the Legion in this endeavour, Caesar." The Centurion bowed deeply. While Caesar considered this in silence Lanius sounded like he was going to object before Cato spoke up again. "Allow me to prove my worth to the Legion." Lucius placed himself between his lord and Cato, his hands ready to kill in protection of the Son of Mars. Eventually Caesar nodded.

"Lanius will supervise and step in if necessary." Though he did not think it would be. The Legate grunted his assent and saluted.

"I shall check on the men." He said, looking to Caesar who nodded his assent. The tall warrior marched from the tent.

"Caesar, I would make a request." Cato continued, taking a step forwards. Caesar looked him up and down.

"Have I not given you enough already?" He demanded. Lucius tensed at his master's tone.

"You have, Caesar." Cato conceded with a dip of his head. "But I would seek a role where I could better serve the Legion." Caesar screwed up his face.

"How?" Caesar asked, angry that Cato would presume to make a request of him.

"Make me Primus Pilus." Cato requested.

"Make you what?" Lucius demanded. Caesar held his hand up silencing the Praetorian.

"The Legion does not have a Primus Pilus." Caesar pointed out. Beckoning to Vulpes for a drink.

"Then start now." Cato said as Inculta poured some honeyed water and gave the cup to Caesar. "Make me the Primus Pilus and make the first Cohort double strength, make it the way of the old Rome." Caesar considered the request, it could do little harm to the Legion unless Cato proved to be an incompetent commander. Though Caesar swore to himself, he would find out how Cato knew so much about the Roman Empire.

"If you do well against the Fiends, then I will consider." Caesar decided, waving Cato away. The Centurion's bowed deeply, placed the wolf mask over his face and turned on his heel before marching from the tent, his two cyberdogs close at his heels.

* * *

><p>The ground outside Freeside, or the Field of Mars as it was now known was full of activity. Many Legionnaires sat around, eating or cleaning their weapons and armour. Others guarded the newly taken slaves and prisoners while those with harsher Centurions continued to train into the fast approaching darkness. Many of the Legionaries saluted as Cato walked past while the Centurions gave him a respectful nod. He gave a low whistle to Roxie as she squared up against a hound. She gave a final low growl before following Rex and her master.<p>

The entire camp was extremely well organised. The men shared their tents with seven others, each one in order from the tenth Contubernia to the first. At the head of the five rows of tents was a slightly larger one, belonging to the Centurion and his household. Cato still did not have a century of his own and so had a detached tent along with several other displaced Centurions.

The newly made Centurion Severus Ferrum-Mos sat around a small fire, a slave stirring a pot of stew next to him. Severus' new harness and helmet lay at his feet, both newly polished and cleaned. Across his lap lay his still incomplete suit of armour. It was a mish-mash of Legion crafted armour, NCR ranger armour and some pieces of tribal attire. Cato sat down opposite him and removed his snarling mask. Severus merely glanced up from his work on his armour and nodded at the Courier. Rex and Roxie both sat down at Cato's feet, stretching out and enjoying the warmth of the fire.

"Stew?" Severus offered, nodding at the pot.

"Please." Cato said, making his fellow Centurion frown, the Legion was taught to respect and be courteous to equals, however the Courier's politeness had raised a few eyebrows. The slave ran to Severus' tent and fetched an extra bowl. Cato accepted the bowl with grace and ate quickly, a habit born from countless nights alone in the wasteland. The two men sat in silence as Severus returned to piecing his armour together and Cato pulled a whetstone from his belt and began to sharpen his new gladius.

"I have been thinking of taking one of the Great Khan women as a wife." Severus broke the silence eventually.

"Good." Cato said simply. "They are strong women and will keep your household in good order." He added when he realised Severus was still looking at him. The more veteran centurion looked pleased with the answer and turned back to his work.

Cato stood and stretched his arms when a force hit him in the back like a brahmin's kick. He staggered forwards, his blood spraying onto the fire. A second later a shot rang out, only barely audible above the sounds of the camp. Severus frowned at him until a second force hit Cato's side. Without a cry he fell to the ground as the second shot rang out. Severus rolled to the side, coming up with his repeater rifle in hand. Almost instantly he fired several times towards what he thought was the source. The sound began to attract the attention of several people before it caught the entire camp when one vigilant Legionary lifted a horn to his lips and blew three short notes.

* * *

><p>Craig Boone cursed under his breath as the alarm went up. Calmly he reloaded his rifle and looked down the scope again. The Courier had regained his feet and now ran with surprising speed towards a pile of sandbags. Taking a deep breath Boone chose his moment and squeezed the trigger. Before the third shot had even hit Boone was reloading his gun again. Dirt flew up around him as several of the Legion tried to hit him. The shots failed to land close enough to do any damage but were still enough to distract him.<p>

"Got him in the arm." Manny's voice called. Boone swore and finished reloading. He began to look for the Courier again. "Sharpshooter, two o'clock." Boone turned his rifle and saw an ugly looking Centurion with an anti-material rifle in his hands. He squeezed the trigger again and heard a satisfying cry of pain as he began to reload again. "Target's gone."

"Fuck!" Boone growled, squeezing off a final round at nearest member of the Legion before grabbing his pack and following his old comrade. Manny had taken some convincing to come along on this mission of Boone's. At first he had been hesitant, like most sane men he lacked the desire to be crucified. In the end however, old loyalties had won through and the ex-spotter had signed on.

Both men ran as fast as their legs allowed, though sounds of their pursuers did not fade. The Legion were fast, Boone had to give them that. The pair reached what for the past few days had been their hideout, a run down shack that had belonged to a now deceased Super mutant, well at least Boone hoped he was dead. A pissed off mutant finding you in his home was a great way to end up in a post-apocalyptic and much more unpleasant version of Goldilocks.

Slamming the door behind them, each man took a window, bracing his rifle against his shoulder. The first two Legionaries to turn to corner and come into the veterans' sights died before they knew they were in a fight, a bullet crashing through their skulls. Three others came with them, one fell before he had a chance to find cover, one of Boone's bullets in his skull. The other two tried their best but they were some of untested recruits and so lacked any firearms, though one javelin did get annoyingly close before they both were dead. Boone swore under his breath as he started to pack up their equipment, with the head start the two had had they should have been able to avoid the Legionaries but Craig was no longer as fast as he used to. Partly due to age and mainly due to the Courier's parting gift, a machete in the side.

The man who Boone had thought an ally had taken the sniper to Bitter Springs. The Courier had informed Boone that the Legion were planning a raid on the refugee camp. At first Boone had thought that the Courier had brought him there to redeem himself for the massacre but when he had turned around, the Courier had been standing there with a grin on his face and a machete in his hand. The blow that came next would have killed Boone had it not got stuck in his ribs. The force behind it had knocked Boone down and thrown him into Lake Mead, he had expected the Courier to come and finish him off but it turned out that the man Boone had thought a friend either cared for him in his own twisted way or simply did not care. Whatever it was, Boone was determined to make the Courier regret it.

"Where do we go now?" Manny asked as he heaved the final duffel bag over his shoulder.

"We'll set up shop in the old REPCON factory." Manny gave no argument with this, he was used to Boone giving him orders and it felt good to be back to like it was before. Slinging his rifle over his back Boone set the pace. They may have failed this time, but there was always second chances.

* * *

><p><em>Just a quick translation of the Latin in the story from my fading memory from Latin classes in school.<em>

_Viator = Courier_

_Salvator = Saviour_

_Vae Vitus = Woe to the conquered_

_Mars Exulte = Mars Exults _

_Primus Pilus = First File (The First File Centurion was the commander of the First Century in the First Cohort, which typically would be double strength. The Primus Pilus was senior to all other Centurions and below only The Legate, Prefect and the Tribunes in a Legion. Though as Caesar's Legion lacks a Prefect and Tribunes so this would make the Primus Pilus third in command of the Legion, or possibly fourth depending on Vulpes' level of power.)_


	3. Taking care of business

Small wisps of smoke drifted lazily into the air with only the most pathetic of winds to force it along. The sun hung in the sky, slowly creeping along as screams filled the air. Two Crimson garbed men ran beneath the oppressive heat, carrying a similarly dressed man between them. They dragged him past the lines of huge, ling barrelled artillery guns the group of tribals and Legionaries, who having loaded their charges now stood around arguing over trajectory and other such things that bewildered anyone who did not have an intense knowledge of the weapons. Behind them waited just over three hundred men, sitting around in groups, sharpening swords and pila and cleaning their armour and rifles. A tall, wide shouldered, scarred man leaned over a large table, his red cape blowing slightly in the pitiful wind. The two Legionaries drew up before the table, the man between them groaning slightly.

"Runner from Centurion Licinius." The men saluted. "Fiend sniper wounded him." They helped the man to his feet, who gave a feeble salute.

"The Centurion says he is in position." The runner gave his report. "And ready to move at the signal." The tall man nodded.

"Take him to the physician." He ordered the Legionaries.

"Ave, Centurion." They saluted and supported the runner as they set off. The tall man turned back to the table, were a large map rested. Allowing himself a quick smile he donned his wolf mask.

"Porcino!" He roared, his powerful voice making his ears ring inside the helmet.

"Yes, Sir." The newly promoted Vexillarius jumped to his feet.

"Give the signal." Porcino nodded and unslung a horn from his shoulder. One single, clear note rang out over the Legionaries. In an instant the army kicked into action, men climbed to their feet and gave their equipment one final check before forming into their Centuries. The Legionaries and Tribals by the artillery jumped to work, each team tweaking the trajectory of their gun slightly before taking their places beside them. The horn blew again and the guns echoed. They fired with the noise of a thunder storm and struck with the power of an earthquake. Screams rose up mere seconds after the shells struck. Buildings at had survived the Great War now crumbled under the guns' strength. The guns made three more salvoes until the victims of the Legion's wrath could take it no more. Dozens, possibly hundreds of grubby, snarling men and women charged out of the ruins that stood across the empty plain from the crimson camp.

"Legion!" Cato's voice roared across the plain. The army snapped to attention. Porcino placed his lips over the horn once more. Two short notes blew out and the Legion roared their response. As one they charged forwards as the artillery crews gave one final salvo. Fiends flew into the air in several pieces as the shells hit. One man disappeared completely into a cloud of blood as the shell hit him straight in the chest.

The Legionaries streamed past the guns and towards the drug addicted raiders. Lasers and bullets screamed out from the Fiends' line, cutting down any Legionaries who had the ill fortune of being in the raiders' line of sight. The Legion responded in kind, those with rifles squeezed their triggers. The least experienced of the Legion formed a solid line, blocking any of the veterans' shots. All four centuries formed into a single battle group, each column marching in unison. Whenever a man fell his place was instantly filled by the Legionary behind him. As the two forces drew closer pilum arched out above the Legionaries and came crashing down upon the Fiends. The raiders reeled back from the sheer force of the volley, off balance and their momentum lost as the Legion struck. The Fiends died in droves, machetes and spears piercing their flesh. Seeing the battle more of the Fiends poured from the ruins of old Vegas and threw themselves at the Legion.

"Forwards!" Cato roared as he pushed his way towards the fray. "No quarter!" His voice carried above the sounds of battle as well as any veteran centurion's. A bullet glanced off Cato's shoulder plate, knocking him back slightly. A loud chuckle came from the wolf mask. "Well come on then!" He picked his pace up to a jog, pushing Legionaries aside as he drew the greatsword from his back.

The first Fiend came at him at him with a rifle, holding it by the barrel and swinging it overhead. The man's head was rolling on the ground before his weapon even came close to brushing Cato's armour. Swinging the bumper sword to the right was rewarded with a satisfying scream as it cut into a raider's side. A Fiend made to hamstring the Centurion, only to be bowled over by Rex, his screams joining the others as the cyber-dog tore into his flesh. Roxie leapt onto the back of a Fiend who was about to finish of a wounded Legionary, bearing him to the ground. Marching forwards, Cato's sword scything through any who stood in his way. His armour deflected many of the blows that made it past his guard, along with several bullet from the few who still had ammunition in their guns, though a few still made it through. But that did not matter to Cato, his blood was up, pain was just an annoyance. The two hounds followed close at his heels, savaging any who did not have the luck to die by Cato's sword.

Far to the left a burly fiend in metal armour hefted his weapon and moved forwards. Flame spewed out from the barrel, burning the flesh of Legionaries and Fiends both. Near to a dozen of the Legion fell away, screaming as their bodies caught fire. In the end however crimson clad warriors poured in from all sides, hacking into any flesh they could find. As the flame died out the mutilated body of Cook-Cook was trampled by dozens of Legionaries who charged to kill his fellows. Cato hacked the arm from a Fiend and kicked the screaming man to the ground.

"None escape!" The Centurion bawled, his voice harsh. Hearing their commander, the closest Legionaries threw themselves forwards with renewed vigour, years of training proving more than a match for drug induced rage. "Every one that is allowed to live is a personal insult to Mars!" Cato let his men overtake, scanning the ranks for the bull banner. He saw the young soldier finishing off a pox marked Fiend, standard in one hand, gladius in the other. "Vexillarius!" The standard bearer looked up and spotted his Centurion. Porcino did not need any further orders, he knew what to do. He sheathed his sword and unslung his horn. He gave a long, flat note followed by two short, sharp ones. He lifted the banner into the air and waved it from side to side. Soon the signal was seen the the other Vexillarius, who followed suit.

"Back!" The cry up up from all the Centurions and Decani. Legionaries drew to a stop, confused by the order. The Legion never retreated, that was something they had been taught since birth. However discipline prevailed over any sense of tradition and they turn and ran, quickly putting an end to whatever fight they were in before following their comrades. Seeing their enemies flee before them, Fiends continued to pour from the ruins, wanting to be a part of the victory. Cato drew to a stop before the guns.

"Form up!" His order was obeyed instantly. The newer Legionaries who still lived crouched in the front line, ready to lunge at their enemies as those behind brought their rifles to bear. They fired with the speed and precision that came with training. The Fiends kept on coming, having committed too much to give up now. A long flat note filled the air, followed by three short ones. This time however the sound did not come from Porcino. Two crimson banners rose up from a trench far to the Legion's right and close to two hundred crimson clad men streamed out. They ran in silence, war cries eerily absent.

Hearing the signal reciprocated Cato's men threw themselves forwards with renewed strength.

"To the left!" Someone cried from the raider host. Those who heard turned their heads and soon near half the band was shouting. Some tried to retreat back to the ruins, and found themselves crashing into those who pushed towards Cato's banner, seeking Legion blood. Others tried to open fire upon the new attackers, many having their shots blocked by fleeing and charging raiders. The new Legionaries struck the Fiends like the fist of an angry god, slashing, hacking and stabbing into the drug filled maniacs. Seeing that his orders had been followed and nothing else was needed Cato once more drew his bumper sword and forced his way into the fray, his two hounds following diligently.

"Veterans forwards!" He ordered and almost as if unleashed from whatever chains bound them the scarred and grim killers hefted whatever weapon they had chosen as their own and pushed their way through the back lines of Primes who had yet to fight. Those of the Primes who were still unbloodied in the battle, not wanting to be left out joined the thrust forwards. The entire raider host reeled back from the arrival of Cato and the veterans, those who had the ill fortune to be between the two forces of Legionaries were cut down without mercy. Cato ducked from a shot from a laser rifle and took the wielder's leg in return, the huge blade he had spent hours sharpening cut through both flesh and bone without pause.

To the quite often unstable and hallucinating Fiends he was some sort of demon or hell beast that tore through their friends and comrades, the wolf mask snarling and barking at them like the hounds beside him. Cato cursed as one Fiend, a tall and dirt covered woman, leaned away from his swing and buried her knife in his leg. Roaring he struck out at her again, only to find his blade meet air. He attacked again and again, each time she dodged, ducked and skipped away from them. More than once he accidentally cut down a Fiend who came to assist in the fight against the demon, or lacked the speed or self preservation to get out of his way. Tiring and getting angry at the situation he found himself in Cato took one final swing before drawing his Colt 45. and putting two rounds in her chest. Putting the gun back in its holster, he watched with a smile as Roxie tore at the throat of the still alive Fiend.

A group of the raiders rallied around a short, ugly and burly Fiend wielding a golf club, Driver Nephi, Cato assumed. The group, perhaps just under two dozen in number charged towards the crimson banner in Porcino's hand. A Prime Legionary charged up, a fire axe in hand. Nephi stepped to meet him, sidestepping the blow and swinging the club in one smooth movement. The club crashed into the Legionary's throat. The man dropped to the ground, choking, were he was finished off by one of Nephi's followers.

"You! With me!" Cato shouted at a group of veterans and then without waiting to see if they had heard he made a beeline through the Legionaries to intercept the Fiend lieutenant. There was almost no gunfire now, whatever ammunition people had at hand having been used up. The Centurion shouldered a raving Fiend aside as he closed up on Driver Nephi.

The first of the Fiends cut their way to Porcino, who was now using the standard as a weapon, swatting it at his attacker. Lunging forwards, Cato stabbed into the side of a raider and elbowed another in the face. The veterans cut into Nephi's followers, their gladius rising and falling, finding their mark each time. Nephi made his way towards Cato screaming something incoherently and spitting on both himself and the ground. Cato met the golf club with his own blade when the two reached each other. Both men came to a halt as they hit, each one pouring his strength into it as they pushed against each other. Cato drew back his head and smacked his mask off Driver's forehead. The Fiend stumbled back, laughing madly.

Cato swung at his opponent, who managed throw himself back, though not in time to avoid the blow completely. The tip of the bumper sword cut through Nephi's leather armour and into his hip, the wound however was not deep enough to stop the drug filled madman. Nephi continued to laugh as he ignored the wound and attacked again. The two men exchanged blows for a few moments until Cato fell for a feint that resulted in him taking a blow to the shoulder that sent a jab of pain down his whole arm. The Centurion desperately blocked another attack and another, not having a chance to turn the momentum. The third blow knocked the bumper sword from his hands. Driver continued to laugh manically, enraging Cato to extents he had rarely felt before. Snarling, Cato threw himself towards the Fiend, grabbing the knees and driving his shoulder into the raider lieutenant's stomach.

He followed through with the tackle, knocking Nephi to the ground, the club stuck between their bodies. Cato straddled his opponent, planting his knees on the Fiend's wrists. The Centurion's hand rose and then came thundering down upon his enemy's face. Blood spurted from Nephi's nose and the laughter continued. Cato punched again, and again, and again.

"Stop laughing!" He roared and continued punching. "Stop laughing!" His fists came crashing down. "Stop fucking laughing!" Nephi's body went limp and the laughing ceased, but the punching did not. He continued to strike at the dead man's face until it was a bloody mess. Breathing heavily, Cato climbed up and retrieved his sword. Porcino and a group of recruits stared at his bloody fists as the Centurion sheathed his weapon and looked around. The Fiends were in full retreat, their dead now numbering in the hundreds and littered the field.

"Vexillarius!" He shouted for Porcino, who snapped his attention away from the blood drenched hands and came to stand by the side of his Centurion.

"Sir?" Cato removed his helmet and wiped his sweat soaked brow.

"Call a halt, we'll finish off the vermin in the morning."

* * *

><p>Ringo leaned back into his green, velvet cushioned chair. He pulled his hat from his head and scratched his brow lazily. After an intense bout of yawning he fidgeted in his seat before finally doing what dozens had done before him, succumbing to boredom. On the first day he had played caravan with Henry Jamison, on the second it had been a game of blackjack with the Gundersons, on the third and fourth it was solitaire. After that he had never wanted to even look at a deck of cards again and had been forced into attempting to count the number of patterns on the peeling wallpaper , though he gave up after he broke three hundred. And now what was he reduced to? Word assossciation games.<p>

"Hand grenade." Heck Gunderson muttered, not looking up from the pre-war book he had been reading since they had given up on blackjack, _How to be the perfect Housewife. _Ringo what not exactly sure what a man well into his fifties, who had probably never done a chore in his life, could learn from such a book but the old Brahim Baron seemed engrossed in it.

"Crater." Ted Gunderson spoke up from his resting place, lying across a bench with his jacket as a pillow.

"War." Ringo spoke through a yawn. No one gave the next word, Heck seemed to have dozed off and Ted was muttering to himself about something. They had been forced to sit in this room for the whole of the past six days. They were brought in at dawn and made to sit and wait. Breakfast and dinner was brought to them by slaves and then at what the less than trustworthy clock on the wall reckoned to be ten at night they would be sent back to their lodgings with the rest of Caesar's 'guests'.

Countless messengers and that odd looking pale man with the coyote's head hat would pass through their sitting room and into the rooms beyond, but none of their group were allowed in, not yet. And none visited Caesar uninvited if they wanted to remain off a cross. Anyone who had any form of powerful connections back in NCR territory was in the room, save the Van Graffs, they had been taking elsewhere by the coyote hat man, who had a rare smile on his face as he did. Alice McLafferty sat in the corner as she always did, reading through a notebook and folder she had retrieved from her luggage when they arrived. The Gundersons and several smaller Brahim barons, such as Walter Phebus were also present, though the two groups sat on opposite sides of the room.

"I want to see him!" Someone shouted. Ringo felt a smile creep up on his face, Nero was back. The slick, oiled and arrogant boss of the Omertas strode through the door to the sitting room, his right hand man, Big Sal, and another Omerta Ringo did not recognise. He stormed right up to the two Praetorians who stood at the doors into the inner rooms.

"None enter until Caesar calls for them." One stony faced guard said, his tone making it sound like he was trying to talk to a child.

"I'm his fucking ally, not a prisoner like the rest of these fucks." Nero spat, gesturing at Ringo and the others.

"As crudely as my dear friend puts it, he has a point." A soft voice said from the entrance. Mortimer, Ringo knew. The Omerta's and the White Gloves had been a common sight in his time in the sitting room, constantly attempting to see the lord of the Legion.

"None enter." The Praetorian repeated, his hands balling into fists.

"Have patience, Caesar will call for you when he is done." Said a calmer, more cool voice. It was the coyote-hat man, though his signature headgear was sadly absent. Behind him stood a young man in a lab coat, who's face seemed unable to decide whether he was happy or afraid. Coyote-hat budged his way past the Omertas and through the door, the young man following.

"Who the fuck was that and why does he get to go through?" Nero demanded, thrusting a dirt covered finger towards the young man through the still open door. A Praetorian grabbed the door and slammed it shut.

"The head of the science department." The guard grunted. Everyone in the room frowned and looked up.

"Legion has a science department?" Heck said sceptically as he looked up from his book.

"Does now." The Praetorian said unhelpfully. Everyone went back to their usual pass times. Heck read his book, Alice leafed through her folder, Phebus glared at the Gundersons, Mortimer brushed the dust off his suit and the Omertas paced angrily for a while before leaving. After a while the Scientist left, escorted by a group of Legionaries. Soon after that a small, grey moustached man arrived, a Caravaneer if his clothes were anything to go by. The man looked over everyone in the room with his small greedy eyes before entering the inner rooms once the Praetorians checked with their superior.

Caesar's personal guards were nothing if not scarily protective of their charge. No one save the dog hat man was allowed to enter without their commander being consulted and despite only changing watch on the doors once each day they remained alert and ready to act at any time. If anyone in the sitting room moved too fast or came within eight feet of the door they would snap into action. Ryan Mills, co-owner of Miles & Mills Caravan Company, had learnt that the hard way when tried to peak into the inner rooms as the dog hat man had entered on the second day. His legs had been swept out from under him and his jaw broken by a right hook before he knew what was happening. A Praetorian stepped through the door.

"Caesar will see you now." He announced to an audible sigh from damn near everyone in the room. Ringo fell in behind Alice and Henry as they marched through. "Not you." The guard growled at Mortimer as the White Glove climbed from his seat. The door was slammed shut as the last of them walked through. A man who Ringo assumed could only be Caesar sat upon a high backed chair, Praetorians at each shoulder. Dog hat man stood to Caesar's right and the grey moustached Caravaneer stood with two other similarly dressed men to the left. The two sides stood in silence for a few moments, Ringo feeling uncomfortable under Caesar's steely gaze.

"Who leads the Crimson Caravan?" He asked, his voice radiating power. Henry opened his mouth and took a half step forwards. Caesar's gaze turned on him. Jamison froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on land. Caesar laughed at him, a harsh brutal laugh that made Henry attempt to find something to look at away from Caesar. "Who leads?" He demanded again. Alice stepped forwards this time.

"I do." She said loudly, meeting Caesar's gaze. The lord of the Legion studied her before nodding to Dog hat man.

"Tell them Vulpes." He ordered. The dog hat man stepped forwards.

"Caesar in his wisdom and mercy has preserved your lives." Vulpes' smooth voice gave Ringo goosebumps. "You are being offered a one time chance for profit. You are being offered the chance to enter into business with our own merchants." Vulpes paused and his pale eyes scanned over the group. "If you want no part in this you may leave with the Followers today."

"I'll not deal with you." A trader whose name Ringo had never learnt said. A few others nodded.

"Then leave now." Vulpes told them. "You may gather your luggage, the Followers leave within the our." Two Praetorians escorted the traders from the room. Ringo wanted so desperately to leave but Alice had said nothing and so he had to stay. Once the others had left Vulpes started again.

"Allow me to introduce, Mr. Barton, Mr Williams and Mr Martin. They represent a large amount of trade in Legion territory." The three men moved forwards and shook hands with McLafferty and the other leaders. "If you retire back to your room you may work out the details." And with that they were dismissed. Ringo frowned as he walked out.

"That was it?" He muttered to Henry. "We waited a fucking week for that?" That brought a smile to Jamison's terror stricken face.

* * *

><p>Motor-Runner flinched as the building shook, pieces of plaster and concrete came crashing to the ground. He looked around at the dirty fear filled faces around him. At best twenty of his raiders still lived, and a good third of those were going through withdrawals. Just two weeks ago, before the Battle for Hoover Dam, they had numbered in their hundreds with four hundred being the highest anyone had bothered to count after their assault on Mccarran. Their numbers had been near constantly growing since he started the gang, with junkies coming in from all over the Mojave and beyond to get their fix, soon smaller raider clans and deserters from the NCR had come to join him. Prisoners also added to their ranks, with those that were taken alive being pumped so full of chems that they either died or couldn't live without them, and Motor-Runner was the only source.<p>

But all that was gone now. Close to three hundred and fifty had either died on the first day or fled, though they had soon showed up on Legion crosses outside their camp. He had lost Violet on the second day after the Legion's big guns buried the vault under the debris of buildings and the Legion had entered their ruins. In the end her dogs had proved to be no help against those two cyber dogs that followed the Legion commander. The building shook again and a Fiend cried out as a piece of the building landed on his leg, crushing it with a sickening crack. Those who were not shaking from the lack of chems sat in sullen silence, many having accepted their fate. Few even bothered to look up when the Legionaries rushed in.

Some cried out when instead of killing them the crimson soldier began to tie them up, beating the fight out of anyone who put up resistance. Motor-Runner tried to punch the Legionary that came at him, his body aching with the wounds of the past three days. The man grabbed his wrist easily and kicked a booted foot into the raider's mouth. His sight flashed white and he felt someone search his body, taking his machete and pistol from him. Rough hands grabbed his legs and dragged him across the floor. His captor dropped his legs, Motor-Runner's body ached and he rolled over to look up. A grim faced and scarred Centurion stood above him, a bruised and battered woman standing at his side.

"Is that him?" The Centurion asked, turning to face the woman slightly.

"That's the bastard." She sniffed. It took Motor-Runner to realise who the girl was; one of his more recent captures, taken from a group of Freesiders who had tried to flee the Mojave before the battle. He had kept her for himself for a few days before turning her over to the men, though he was surprised they had not tired of her and killed in the time since. The Centurion turned to Motor-Runner's captor.

"Take him to Viator." He ordered. The masked soldier grunted and grabbed Motor-Runner. They left the ruins, the Fiend's legs dragging across the rubble. Motor-Runner was forced to his feet and every so nicely ordered by a man with a spear to walk. Dozens of Legionaries moved through the ruins, dragging bodies and collecting loot. Out on the plain he saw where the bodies were going, a huge pile of tyres far from the Legion camp.

Beside the makeshift funeral pyre lines of crosses dominated the skyline, all those unfortunate enough to be taken alive over the past three days hanging by the ropes. Motor-Runner was made to walk through the crimson tents, past the faceless, identical soldiers. A group of men and women in black leather jackets sat apart from the Legion, cleaning the artillery. He walked past all this and to an open space before a large tent, a thick table set out in the centre, surrounded by Centurions. The Wolf faced Legion commander stood at the head.

"Caius will stay here with his century to hunt down any survivors." The Wolf told the Centurions. "Licinius." The Wolf addressed a burly, vicious looking man to his right. "Take your century south in the morning, scout the Powder Gangers and get an assessment on their strength."

"Does this order come from the Legate?" Licinius asked. Motor-Runner was held back at the edge of the open space by his captor, not wanting to interrupt his superiors.

"Lanius left me in charge when Caesar recalled him." The Wolf growled, his voice edged with steel. "I am here by Caesar's will, my orders are his orders. Do you disobey the son of Mars?" Licinius backed down. Despite the situation Motor-Runner enjoyed the exchange, it was like watching on of Violet's dogs challenge the alpha. "Dismissed." The Wolf snarled. The others nodded and marched away. Motor-Runner's captor prodded him forwards.

"Sir." The soldier called, making the Wolf look up. "We caught him." Motor-Runner felt the Wolf's eyes take in all his details and could almost spot contempt through the eye holes.

"Are you sure?" He asked, moving closer and towering over the Fiend.

"I'm sure." The woman stepped up from behind. The Wolf nodded and turned back to Motor-Runner.

"See, once they've been with me, they'll never forget it." The raider grinned, he knew he was going to die, what did he have to fear now? The Wolf's hand moved so fast that he barely noticed it before the armoured glove backhanded him, the force knocking him off his weak legs.

"We have a cross already set up for you at Roma. Hope you enjoy it." Motor-Runner felt as if the Wolf should be smiling smugly at him. The Fiend had no idea what Roma was be he could tell he didn't want to go there. "Decanus, how many won't make the trip?"

"Six, maybe seven." Motor-Runner's captor answered, his voice a deep rumble.

"Crucify them now." The Wolf ordered. "Throw the others in the wagon." Powerful arms reached down and grabbed Motor-Runner's shoulders. The Wolf handed the woman a small bag that jingled as he dropped it into her hands.

"There's a token in there." He told her. "It will give you safe passage to the Mojave Outpost." The woman nodded her thanks and walked away. The Decanus grabbed Motor-Runner's arms and began to drag him through the camp. As he marched Motor-Runner softly stroked the knife hidden in his briefs. If he was going to die, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it quietly.

* * *

><p>The night was still. The wind was barely above a whisper, even nature stayed quiet under the watchful eyes of the Legion. The slaves who had not yet gone to sleep sat silently in their tents, many remembering through tear filled eyes the children who had been taken east. Out in the darkness, away from the fires men crawled through the bushes. The King, his hair now deprived of wax and filled with dirt, lay on his stomach watching the sentries. Behind him several dozen men who had been Kings stared at him expectantly.<p>

"Let's do this."

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for the rather long update time, I ended up losing the file when I had to switch computers and had to re-write it<em>


	4. Building

The lights of the Aces Theatre that had once filled the hall with colour and flare now gathered dust. A simple lamp rested on one of the tables, barely holding back the shadows that lingered in the edges of its glow. Legate Lanius, the Monster of the East paced around the room, his armoured fists curled into balls at his side. Two Legionaries stood a respectful distance away, knowing those fists could crush their throats if angered enough.

"How many dead?" Lanius demanded, his deep threatening voice echoing through the hall.

"Fifty-two, sir." One Legionary answered almost instantly, whatever fear he held being beaten by discipline. The Legate roared and kicked over a table. First he had been made to simply watch the campaign against the Fiends, unable to give a single command or kill a single enemy. Then a messenger from Caesar had arrived, hundreds of tribals had been spotted in the north. Lanius had hurried towards Nova Roma, eager to unleash his blade. But no, by the time he arrived it had been established that they were allies, applicants to the Legion. He had isolated himself to the recently abandoned Tops Casino, ready to take his anger out on anyone or anything that crossed him. And now, to top it all off, The Kings had made a break for freedom. They had failed of course, none escaped the Legion under Lanius' watch, and those who lived were going to regret it.

"Caesar commands you to take control of the situation." The Legionary relayed the orders. Lanius grinned beneath his helmet, at least one good thing was coming from this.

"Come." Lanius growled at the two soldiers, who fell in behind him. They marched through the front of the Casino, the rooms feeling strangely empty now all the gambling machines and tables had been torn up and removed. Several men of the Legion sat around, Praetorians in the main, with Caesar's temporary quarters being found upstairs. A few Legionaries were in attendance, Lanius' unofficial bodyguard. He had Praetorians to follow him into battle but he preferred to have his own men at hand.

"Naevius." The Legate barked, getting the attention of a powerful shouldered Legionary who's shaved skull barely reached Lanius' shoulders. Naevius snapped to attention and jogged over. The short, hard faced man had been with Lanius for his entire time in the Legion, a fellow Hidebark warrior, the two shared many memories of their time in the tribe though what their names were during that time evaded both men. With his oldest comrade at his side the Legate marched onto the Strip. The hour was early with the sun only just cresting the horizon. A few Legionaries moved about, probably on errands from their Centurion. The doors to the Omerta and White Glove Strongholds remained locked, a few guards standing by the doors. Their time would come, Lanius knew. It would be as it always was, once the Legion had secured the Mojave the tribals would be integrated, forcibly Lanius hoped. They marched through the Strip, past Freeside, where the Legionaries were already setting about the task of rebuilding the run down neighbourhood. On the outskirts of the Camp was a large fence cage. Dozens of bruised and bloody men sat inside, Chairmen who had been too resistant and now the survivors of the King's breakout. The tribals who had arrived from the north had set up their camp beyond that, Caesar would meet with them once Vulpes had gathered all he could. A group of men in suits stood by the fence, talking to those inside from the looks of it. Omertas, Lanius seethed at the sight of them. They were cowards, dishonourable and would be a stain upon the Legion if they were allowed to live for much longer.

"You're going to die now." One of the Omertas was mocking the prisoners. It was the one who called himself Nero. He did not deserve that name, Lanius thought, It was one carried by many in the Legion and it was one that was brought shame by allowing this worm to carry it. "You're going up on one of those fucking crosses, you too Benny if we're lucky enough." Nero grinned to a dishevelled looking man in the remains of a black and white plaid suit.

"Fuck you." Benny retorted. Lanius smiled under his mask, still defiant despite the hardships, he could respect that. A half dozen Legionaries stood by the door to the cage, they paid the Omertas no mind, Nero and his gang posed to threat to them or their charges. Lanius drew up before the guards, who saluted instantly. Nero strolled up to the Legate as the taller man stared at the King intently. The old ruler of Freeside met the malevolent balls of fury beneath the mask before turning away. Lanius enjoyed letting them stew for a while before starting their punishment. Nero was right in a way, they would be crucified, just not right away, that would be too merciful.

"Hey, Lanius." Nero said, his way of talking, his swagger, almost everything about him was the epitome of what was wrong with New Vegas. The Legate growled at him, making the gangster frown. "You haven't got rabies have you?". Lanius ignored Nero, he must resist killing the fool, he told himself.

"Take the strongest." He ordered the guards. "Break their spirit." Knowing the routine, two of the Legionaries opened the gate and grabbed a tough looking King, dragged him out and began to beat him. At first the man tried to resist but a sharp left hook from one Legionary took the fight out of him. Once he was bleeding from the nose, lips and cheeks the men threw him back in with the others. Nero watched the affair with a smile.

"You sure you can't do the King next?" He asked. "I've wanted to see him beaten to a pulp for a long time." Lanius continued to ignore him. "Aww come on, Lanni." Nero grinned. "I thought we got past the silent treatment by the second date."

"Only Caesar's orders stop me from tearing out your throat, Profligate." Lanius barked. Nero pouted and tutted, shaking his head from side to side.

"Aww, is someone on their period?" Nero chuckled to himself, his cronies joining in. Lanius' hand swept out, backhanding Nero and grasping the gangster around the throat. One of the Omertas went for his pistol, he was fast, unfortunately for him Naevius was faster. The Legionary moved like a blur, his fist forming into a blade and striking at the Omerta's throat. Before Lanius had even lifted Nero off the ground one of his men was on his knees, coughing violently, and the rest moved their hands away from their weapons.

"Caesar said I may not kill you." Lanius' growl was deep and threatening. "He said nothing about your condition." Nero blanched as Lanius tightened his grip. As the Legate squeezed harder, Nero's face changed colour until it was a deep purple and he was slamming against Lanius' arm, futilely.

"Sir." Naevius gave Lanius a slight tap. "No killing." Lanius relented, dropping the spluttering gangster to the dirt. If not for the mask Lanius would have spat on the man. The whole situation had put the Legate in a foul mood, and that rarely boded well, for anyone. His dark eyes swept back onto the cage.

"Take them all." He ordered. "Crucifixion for every second man." The Legionaries opened the door and began selecting some of the Kings.

"The rest?" The Decanus in charge of the prisoners spoke up. Lanius smiled under his mask.

"The hounds need practice."

* * *

><p>Boone cleaned his rifle with the efficiency of a veteran, the now grey cloth finding every nook and cranny of the disassembled gun. Leaning back and admiring his handiwork, Boone could not help but notice grime and dust that covered everything, from the small, wonky desk he sat behind to the patchy sofa in the corner. In a dirty room in a dirty building guns were the only clean thing, well guns, their food and their medical supplies. All three of which they now had in relative abundance.<p>

It turned out they had not been the only ones who had sought to use the old factory near Novac as a hideout. They had been greeted by a huge, thick bearded blond man, who as many of Boone's comrades in the army would have said, was built like a brick shit house. The man, with a grenade launcher in hand had demanded to know if they were Legion or raiders. After answering no to both the man had lowered his gun and welcomed him in. The giant, who went by the name of Blueballs, had introduced them to the others. There was a merchant called Cross and his guards; a group of NCR soldiers, half of whom were wounded; a bunch of well armed men and woman, who answered to Blueballs and a few refugees from New Vegas. The southern roads had been blocked by the Legion, meaning they were all stranded until the conquerors' patrols became less frequent. There were thirty one in total, thirty three with Boone and Manny. Cross, as the source of the food and medicine seemed to share de facto leadership with Captain Marcinko, the commander of the NCR troops. They agreed to let Boone and Manny stay on the condition that they made sure to cover their tracks after each foray, with Marcinko even offering to join them once his leg was better. Boone reassembled his rifle as he had done a thousand times before, finding a small amount of satisfaction in the awed face of Jess, one of the refugees from Vegas. She sat on the sofa on the other side of the room, listening to the slow lilting music drifting from the radio.

"_And now for the news_." The voice of Mr. New Vegas said. "_Error, no new updates._" Said a crackly robotic voice. Music came back on. "_I've got spurs that jingle jangle jingle..._" Blueballs switched off the radio, muttering something about wishing they would get new songs. Boone liked having music in the background but he did not want to get into an argument about it. He knew he could beat Blueballs if it came to a fight but the man was a mercenary, a dangerous looking one and would doubtless have a few tricks up his sleeves.

"Can I come with you next time?" Jess asked, she was a young woman, barely into her teens. Boone laid down his rifle and looked at her over his glasses.

"Have you ever fired a gun before?" He demanded. He shook her head. "Then the answer is no." He said simply, ignoring the look of indignation on the youth's face. Jess looked as if she was about to complain but Blueballs tapped her with his booted foot.

"Go and help Marr with the cooking." He ordered in a tone that brooked no argument. Jess nodded and left the room. Boone was left alone with the big man, well one of Cross' guards, a rather plump and lazy man was sleeping on one of the armchairs. Silence dragged between the two men as Blueballs read a magazine and Boone continued to check his weapon.

"Why d'you do it?" Grunted Blueballs, still not looking up from his magazine.

"Do what?" Boone asked, wiping the final spots of dirt from his rifle.

"Kill the Legion, all it's going to do is piss them off." Blueballs' eyes stayed on his magazine.

"Some battles need to be fought." The Sniper said, Blueballs hawked and spat in a waste bin in response. Boone sighed and picked up the rifle, walking past the merc and out to a corridor. Blueballs was a true mercenary, the kind Boone had seen a thousand times before. Profit and self-preservation were his only motivations, he would probably even sign up with the Legion if they had a habit of hiring.

Several people were walking around the corridors; one of Cross' guards was running an errand for him, or so Boone assumed; a few the refugees were exploring the factory, mostly the young ones who had never been away from their neighbourhood before and to whom everything new was an adventure. Two of Blueball's people, a gaunt faced skeleton of man who reminded Boone overly much of a corpse and a short woman with arms like tree trunks and a large 'M' shaped scar carved into her forehead were wandering seemingly aimlessly with a clipboard. Their names were Sunshine and Drip, respectively and over the past few days they had become a common sight in the halls. They were almost constantly wandering around with that clipboard and scribbling away at it. Boone had wanted to ask them about it but Sunshine's pale, dead eyes and Drip's thick arms were enough to give even the ex sniper pause. Boone almost bumped into Cross as he made his way into the supply room, the way the trader hung around that room was to Boone, not all that different from a deathclaw and its lair.

"What do you want then?" Drawled the short, hawk faced merchant. The man had been polite and welcoming at first, however as time dragged on it seemed as if Cross was getting tired of giving his goods away for free to a bunch of refugees and soldiers. "At least the Legion pay." Manny had overheard the merchant complaining bitterly to one of his guards on their second day there.

"Just enough to keep us going if we end up staying out overnight." Boone answered in the cold, even tone he hoped would make Cross wary of him. It was Boone's preferred tactic when dealing with merchants and worked on most of them. "We wouldn't want to lead the Legion back here would we?"

"Oh, you'll not frighten me." Cross wagged a finger at him. "I've escaped worse than the Legion before and I'll do it again." The merchant cracked a smile at him, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth. "However, it would be such as shame to see you strung up on one of their crosses." With that Cross stepped to the side, his small, beady eyes following Boone as he walked into the supply room. Boone quickly rummaged through the closest box for some snacks and stuffed them into his pack before leaving.

Sunshine was leaning against the wall outside the store room, a grin that stretched the skin tight against his head graced his lips.

"Do you take trophies?" The corpse faced merc asked as Boone warily skirted around him, his grin vanishing.

"What?" Boone asked, more concerned with dull, dead monotone than the words.

"Legion." Sunshine clarified. "I ran with another bunch of mercs a few years back, we took tongues and made them into necklaces." Boone frowned at the man. "I had a big necklace." Sunshine said fondly. After a moment of what Boone assumed to be day-dreaming Sunshine's eyes snapped back round. "Well?" He prompted.

"No." Boone answered concisely as per usual.

"Well you should." Sunshine muttered as he pushed himself away from the wall. "We could turn it into a competition or something." Boone could only shake his head as the merc wandered off. Hoping that no one else was going to try and strike up a conversation with him on his way out Craig set off again.

The twilight hours were coming, which for Boone and Manny meant hunting time. Vargas was already waiting for him, sitting on a small box outside the old factory, rifle, binoculars and ammo in hand. They needed no words, Boone simply nodded to his old friend and the two men began to walk into the hills.

* * *

><p>They returned in the early hours of the morning, only slightly worse for wear. Boone had a bandaged wound on his left arm while Manny was covered in scratches and scrapes. They had stumbled across a patrol in their escape and though they had managed to kill them in the end it had taken an hour of pursuit before they found a good choke point. They passed one of the Cross' men on sentry duty in the toll booth on the road to the factory. Boone noticed at least two more watching from crow's nests atop the ridge, rifles in hand and hawk eyes following them every step of the way. Marcinko was sitting by a table in the courtyard, playing cards with Blueballs and an assorted group of soldiers and mercs. The group seemed so intently focused on their game that they failed no even notice Boone and Manny's approach. A pile of luxuries lay next to each player; cigarettes, jewellery, alcohol and a various assortment of useful tools. An NCR corporal won the round, three packs of cigarettes, a deathclaw horn and a spanner were his takings.<p>

"Good hunting?" Marcinko enquired as he shuffled the pack for the next round.

"Had better." Boone answered as he laid down his gear and settled down on an empty chair. Manny wandered off, muttering something about a wash, leaving Boone to watch the card game as he leafed his way through a magazine on the table, it was hardly an enlightening read but it was entertaining enough.

"So right, I'm in the Tops, playing the slots..." One of the NCR continued with a story that he had began before Boone's arrival. "Next thing I know, this girl with one of the biggest racks I've ever seen comes up and starts talking to me." A few of the other soldiers began to grin, knowing where this story was going. "Next thing I know I'm running through the strip naked being chased by an angry husband and brother." He stopped while the others chuckled. The soldier was about to start again when his jaw dropped open and he stared past Boone.

"What the fuck?" One of the players said. Boone turned in his seat and it took him a moment to realise what the horrible sight behind him even was. Sunshine and Drip stood about ten feet behind him, coated in blood. Some was flowing from cuts upon their arms, though most of it must have belonged to someone else. Upon their necks were a hideous ring of trophies. Ears, Boone thought, or at least that was what they looked like at a distance. Sunshine and Drip dumped their gear on the ground and took two spare seats at a separate table. Each had at least half a dozen ears around their necks. Drip pulled a cloth from her pocket and began to wipe the blood off her face with sharp, precise swipes. Sunshine's dead eyes studied Boone.

"We're winning." He grinned, showing his yellow teeth.


	5. Planting the Seeds

Cato Viator stretched out on his cot with a satisfied sigh. The bedding was some of the best Cato has found outside of the Lucky 38, Caesar took care of his officers. The rest of the tent was Spartan in design, a simple armour rack and a small stand for Cato's weapons, though he could have had more luxuries if he wished but Cato like the majority of his fellow officers had simple tastes.

The Courier smiled as his eyes passed over a golden medallion on his harness, his new sign of rank. Caesar and Vulpes had been pleased with his progress in the south, though Lanius had glared. That may have not been enough to secure Cato's ambition but Caesar could hardly deny him when the notorious Salt-Upon-Wounds had prostrated himself at the sight of the warrior who had brought down the Burned Man and his warriors. If it were any other man Salt-Upon-Wounds would have been tempted to lie and claim all the glory for defeating the Sorrows and Dead Horses. But seeing dozens of the Dead Horses' best warriors cut down by a single man was enough to cow even a Warchief. With the achievements piling up Caesar had no choice but to promote his new officer, well that and the chanting of troops after the news had been spread among the Legion by Cato's men – even Caesar could not deny his men. Though in the end Caesar did not bend to Cato's wishes, the Son of Mars would never allow himself to be forced into doing something. Cato was made the Legion's newest Legate rather than creating a new rank, a change which Cato was not all that opposed to, he rather liked the title.

"What happens now then?" Asked a gravely voice from the shadows.

"We continue as planned." Responded Cato, closing his eyes and settling into a comfortable position on the cot. A growl came from the shadows. "Did you make the delivery?" Cato asked.

"Yeah." The growl answered.

"Then we continue as planned." Cato smiled, undoing his sandals.

"What about Boone?" the smile disappeared.

"Let him do his thing. It could prove beneficial in the future." the Primus Pilus informed the shadow. "Set ED-E to following them. I want to know where they are at any moment."

"I'll do it as soon as I get back." The shadow said "What do you want done with the big guy?"

"Get to stir up trouble in the south, I want Boone to look like more of a trouble than he is." The shadow. "Get the others to run interference on the Rangers, I don't NCR having a clue what's happening north of the outpost."

"I'll tell them." Said the shadow. "We'll be working overtime, though. Any of your Legion boys you trust enough to take some of the weight off?"

"Legion respects strength, and I've shown enough to win some to me personally. I'll have Porcino make some discreet inquires and send any he finds up to you."

"Be nice to get some new conversation." The Shadow chuckled, climbing to its feet and slipping out of the tent.

* * *

><p>Arcade Israel Gannon, Follower of the Apocalypse, adventurer and now physician to a scumbag slaver king strolled through the halls of the Lucky 38, remembering his more pleasant memories of the place. Drinking, gambling and talking with the Courier's other companions. Boone had been the first to go - killed by a nightkin, then Veronica – kidnapped by NCR rangers for being brotherhood and finally Rose had decided to go back into the caravan business. Or so the Courier claimed as he returned from their final trips with him. Arcade personally was not sure whether it was a good thing his last trip ended in a sale rather than a bullet to the brain.<p>

The Lucky 38 did look cleaner now he had to admit, and the walls had been given a new coat of paint along with several new drapes – who could have guessed that the Legion had interior designers, thought Arcade.

"Slave!" Called a harsh voice, Arcade knew Lucius was the owner without needing to look. "Caesar will see you now." The soldier informed him. Gannon nodded meekly and made his way towards Caesar's personal quarters. Along the way he passed a dozen or so guards, all standing a still as statues. He turned a corner to a sight that made him stop in his tracks.

The Courier stood, leaning against a wall, deep in conversation with the Legate. He looked much the same as Gannon remembered – tall, wide shouldered, strong, arrogant and far too scarred and weathered to be considered handsome in Arcade's opinion. The Legate as always was a faceless beast. And from the tone of their conversation – an angry faceless beast.

"You have stolen a chance at victory from me." He growled at the Courier, who smirked in return.

"I followed orders." The Courier somehow remained casual in front of a man who had killed for less than smiling in the past. "Don't get angry just because Caesar wants to let the other children play with the toys sometime."

"Enough of your cheek." If looks could kill, Arcade could only imagine that the Courier would have on the floor by now. "I will lead the Legion to its next victory." The Legate said, insistently.

"Be my guest." The Courier smirked again and gestured towards the door. "Shall we?" Lanius grunted and stepped past the Primus Pilus. The Courier leaned back on the wall and upon spotting Gannon he developed what the physician could only describe as a shit-eater grin.

"Enjoying our new employment, Arcade?" The Courier asked. Gannon sighed and stepped closer.

"I've had worse." He shrugged. The Courier chuckled. "How's the new rank, Sandy?" The Courier's smile went as quick as it had come

"That name doesn't exists any more. Its Cato Viator now, didn't you hear?" He spoke the same way Arcade had seen him converse with raiders or anyone else he might kill on impulse – Calm and polite, with a steely undertone.

"I thought what with you selling me into slavery and all I could get a little leeway. Come on, for old times sake, Sandy?" Arcade smiled while the Courier snarled.

"Go see your master." With that the Courier pushed himself off the wall and strode away. Arcade watched him go before going in the opposite direction. The two Praetorians on the door opened it for him, revealing Caesar's personal quarters. It was much the same as his old tent in the fort. A small table for food, another for messages, a large bed and a throne. The Lord of the Legion sat upon the spiked throne, his left foot resting upon his right knee, reading _Il Principe_, the bastard had raided the Followers' library before turning them loose.

"Arcade, how goes it?" He said, glancing up from his book.

"I'm treated better than the rest of your slaves, I suppose that's something to be thankful for." Muttered Arcade as he rummaged through his physician's bag in the corner of the room. Caesar did not permit him to keep sharp tools in his own quarters.

"Of course you should." Caesar folded the corner of his page and closed the book. "Machiavelli was right." He said with a sigh as he put it down.

"On which count?" Arcade took the bait, Caesar liked an audience

"You can never trust mercenaries." The slaver stood up and ventured across to the food table, where he poured himself a cup of honeyed water.

"The Courier was a mercenary before he joined you." Arcade pointed out, knowing it would irritate Caesar.

"He saw the truth." Caesar said in a tone that clearly put an end to the conversation. He finished his drink as Arcade completed his inspection. The Praetorians had not rummaged through it or removed anything. He then marched over to Caesar and began his check up. It was routine, doing the same thing he always did. The Praetorians did not even seem to watch him like a hawk as they had done the first few times.

"You are in excellent health. Recovering remarkably well." Summarised Gannon as he zipped up the bag. "Will you be needing anything else?"

"Yes." Caesar nodded to Lucius, who disappeared into a rather large closet. Caesar took a seat at the table and gestured Arcade to take the seat opposite. Once they were seated Lucius emerged with a chess board and small box. He laid the board down and Caesar began setting up the pieces. They were sublime, made from expertly carved stone. Caesar noticed Arcade's appreciation.

"They were part of the tribute from a village of artisans called Two Suns." Caesar informed him. "Do you play?"

"On occasion." Answered Gannon as he set up his own pieces.

"Good. I lack the patience to explain all the rules and intricacies to Vulpes, and Lucius lacks the tactical mind for it." Lucius had no protests to the statement.

The game lasted close to an hour, talking of literature and history as they played Caesar finally won by sacrificing his queen to entrap Arcade.

"You are skilled." Caesar noted as Lucius packed the set away. "But lack the ability to win." Arcade was silent. "We shall play again but for now I'm done with you." That was as much a dismissal as he was ever going to get so Arcade excused himself and made his way back his quarters. The halls were mostly empty, save for the guards and a few slaves running errands. One slave, a young man who looked oddly out of place among the elderly, women and weak who usually made up the slave stock seemed to be following him. Once he found an empty corridor with no guards in easy hearing distance, Arcade rounded on the man.

"What do you want?" He demanded. The slave glanced around quickly before shuffling close to him.

"Do you hate Caesar?" The slave asked leaning in close. Arcade was wary, could this be some kind of test.

"Well I don't particularly like the man." The slave grinned at that.

"You can help us then." He said. "Its going to be risky, though."

"Who's us?" Arcade demanded, was this some kind of slave rebellion in the making? The man smiled.

"Captain Dennis Washington, NCR Intelligence Corp, at your service."

* * *

><p>Cornelius pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders. He hated guard duty. He hated garrison duty and he hated the fact that while he protected farmers and slaves the other centuries were winning glory in the south. But he would follow orders and protect the dirt pickers, he always followed orders.<p>

"Sand storm is on the way." His fellow watcher, Licinius, nodded to the north. Cornelius looked around.

"It's fast." Cornelius watched it move with alarming speed towards them. "Thin as well, not much intensity to it." Licinius frowned.

"Looks like kick up from a vehicle." He said, squinting. They had seen the occasional 80's car in the distance – the kick up from their cars did not give the raiders the element of surprise and a simple show of force from the Legion garrison had always been enough to send them looking for easier prey outside of Legion territory.

"Too much for that." Cornelius said, climbing to his feet.

"What if there's a lot of them?" Licinius asked.

"There was a raiding party that went by last month must have been twenty cars, even that didn't have as much dust." The two men settled men settled back down, Licinius was still uneasy but Cornelius was his senior so he did not protest.

The 80's came over the rise less than five minutes later in three solid lines of cars and buggies of various qualities and states of repair. Even the smallest could seat two with two others clinging to the sides, standing on makeshift extensions. There was at least one hundred cars, each one carrying a squad of well armed raiders. Cornelius barely had time to regret his decision before a spray of gunfire from a mounted machine gun tore apart his lungs and pierced his hearts. Licinius jumped for the horn and almost managed to bring it to his lips before he to was killed. The 80's continued, not even bothering to avoid the bodies as they made their way across the northern border of the Legion.


	6. Discovery

Boone stared at the burned out carcass of a Legion supply caravan. Close to two dozen bodies, sixteen guards and several slaves all burned beyond recognition. The bodies were piled atop each other at the centre of the caravan. There were shell casings all over the place. They tried to fight off whatever or whoever came at them. Emphasis on the word tried, thought Boone. He could see no evidence of them bringing someone down with them or any bodies being moved aside their own.

"Good work." Boone commented to Drip and Sunshine who sat on a rock a dozen or so feet away.

"Not us." Sunshine looks up from sharpening his machete. "Found them like this." Manny chuckled to himself.

"Well someone out there is as pissed off at the Legion as we are it seems." The spotter smiled at Boone. "Best move quickly though, the smoke will bring Legion stomping."

"Agreed." Boone, as always, was a man of few words. They had ramped up their strikes against the Legion in the past two weeks, quick strikes to take out Centurions and supply caravans before retreating into the hills. They always took care to leave no track back to the factory, the last thing they wanted was to wake up with the Legion at their door. The group moved fast – using the convoluted paths they took home it would often take a raiding party hours to get back. They travelled mostly in silence until as they neared the factory Manny came level with Boone and leaned in close.

"We're being watched." The spotter whispered. "Twenty metres back, been on us for the past five minutes." Boone nodded and beckoned Sunshine and Drip over.

"Manny and I are going to keep on walking, you two loop round and surprise whoever is following us." Drip grinned and prepared to head off. "Take them alive." Boone added, causing the smile to disappear. The pair of mercs went away but Boone did not watch them go, he just continued on his way as if nothing had changed. It was not long before they heard a shouting coming from behind them. The Sniper turned around to see Drip and Sunshine bringing their capture with them. It was a woman in her early thirties by the look of it. She had no bruises, dirt or blood on her – so she came in without a struggle Boone concluded.

"Who are you?" He asked, feeling no reason no make the kind quips that he had come accustomed to hearing the Courier make towards his enemies. The woman looked up and gave a slight smile.

"Are you the resistance?" She seemed to barely be able to control her excitement.

"We asked first." Manny cut in.

"Sorry, name's Sunny Smiles come from what used to be Goodsprings." She offered her hand. Boone left her hanging.

"Used to be?" He frowned.

"Oh they still call it Goodsprings but it ain't the Goodsprings I remember." She spat off to the side. "So are you the resistance?" She asked again.

"We kill Legion." Boone shrugged. "Didn't know we had a reputation."

"I heard about you from a friend in the Crimson Caravan. They pulled up in Goodsprings – Legion won't let them south until they catch whoever keeps on ambushing them. I heard about it and guessed I might as well join up."

"You hate the Legion?" Manny asked.

"There are people who don't?" She countered. Manny and Boone stared at her for a few seconds before she relented. "Bout a couple days after the Damn fell a patrol of Legion comes in and says we're now in Legion territory and nails their demands up on a post. Basically says we have to give them tribute every month, give up all our weapons and whenever they want the Legion can swing by and take any boys they want and train 'em up as Legionaries. Then as they're searching through our houses for weapons one of the bastards shoots my dog for trying to nip him when he went into the fridge."

"Was that you back there then?" Boone gestured towards the smoke from the supply caravan.

"God no, I only have a pistol I managed to hide in the floorboards." She told them. "I've just been waiting along the road for the past few days hoping I'd stumble along you, saw the smoke and thought I might be able to catch you." Boone looked at Manny and raised an eyebrow. The spotter looked thought about it for a few moments before making his mind up.

"Legion's too proud to use a woman to catch us, I think she's telling the truth." Boone glanced at Sunshine and Drip. Drip gave a slight nod, Sunshine just looked like he didn't give a shit whether she came with them or they put a bullet in her skull. Two for and one abstain, fair enough.

"You can come with us, we'll introduce you to everyone and if you're good with a gun then you'll get shoot some Legion."

* * *

><p><strong>"The fucking who?<strong>" Caesar's voice filled the chamber. Arcade could not help but grin as he watched the Legion's top men squirm under their lord's gaze.

"The 80's, Caesar." Vulpes bowed. "They are a band of raiders from the North who possess an impressive fleet of vehicles."

"I know who they fucking are! You've told me three times already." Caesar fumed. It was amusing and surreal for Arcade to see even Sandy look uncomfortable and ashamed. "What I want to know is why they're in my fucking land and why I've never even heard of them before now."

"They have always been a small fringe faction, with the New Canaanites and their ilk covering most of what is now our border with them. I never thought to burden you with knowledge of their existence." Caesar fixed him with a glare that would make even a deathclaw stop in its tracks.

"Get. Out. Now." Caesar did not raise his voice but instead dropped to a deep, tranquil tone that Arcade wished he would never hear again. Vulpes bowed and hurried out the door, past the glaring eyes of Lucius. "Now." He turned on the rest. "I no longer give a shit about who they are, what they want or what colour of fucking car they drive. I want them dead, crucified, massacred. I want there to be a subsection in the fucking history books titled: This is why you do not fuck with the Legion." Caesar ended his rant with spit flying across the room, some even touching Lanius' mask. Arcade loved it when Caesar got angry, it was one of the few times he got to see the enslaving bastards that formed the Legion's upper echelons get a bollocking.

"Allow me to handle this." Lanius stepped forwards. Caesar eyed him, the scowl still on his face.

"Good. Anyway it is unfitting for two Legatus to be commanding the same host." Caesar seemed to have calmed some as he settled into his throne. "Take as many centuries as you deem necessary, Cato will remain here and pacify the Mojave." Arcade guessed that if Lanius was even capable of it he would be grinning under his mask. Every time the Follower of the Apocalypse had heard Caesar and the Legate speak he had requested permission to go and crush some group or another, now he finally had a chance to go wail on something and Arcade wished him all the best, Lanius being a miles away from you was never a bad thing. "Begin the preparations immediately." He commanded. The pair of Legates saluted turned to leave. "Cato, stay." The Courier stopped in his tracks.

"Now, would you care to explain why we are losing men to a bunch of ghosts?"

"Sir, they attack and disappear before we can react. We are upping security but they are just hitting us harder." A lesser man might have stuttered or grovelled under Caesar's gaze but not Cato. He met the Son of Mars straight in the eye and stated his facts.

"I don't want excuses, I want it solved." Caesar demanded.

"Your will be done, Caesar." Cato bowed and left.

Arcade felt like smiling at the frustration he could see on Caesar's face – he had not given his new Legate permission to leave. It was small enough that Caesar would not make an issue out of it but still large enough to get under his skin. With his scowl firmly on his face Caesar joined Arcade at the chess board again. The game had been going on for close to forty minutes when they had been interrupted and in the time Caesar had been ranting and raving Arcade had devised the perfect way to put the topping of shit on what had so far been such a wonderful and stress free day for the slaver king. It worked a treat – within three moves Caesar's king was captured and Arcade was ordered out, no doubt to allow the soon to follow temper tantrum to go unseen by a slave.

Gannon walked through the guarded hallways, bowing to every Legionary he passed and taking care not to bump into any of the slaves as they carried their workloads around the old casino – he knew even a single drop of drink or food was dropped they would be punished for it. He paced about, trying not to make it look like he was going no-where in particular until he came to a rest room two floors down from Caesar's quarters. It was clean – as far as a post apocalyptic toilet could be in a building occupied by soldiers. Arcade did a quick check to make sure no-one was in the room, or making their way towards it before crouching before the closest urinal. He reached underneath and pulled out out a loose brick. Behind it were a pen and a piece of paper. In a scrawl that was barely legible he hastily scribbled down his news, every once in a while glancing up to make sure no-one came in.

_Legion attacked in the north, serious – Lanius sent to deal with it. Resistance in the Mojave still strong – Courier given command of breaking it._

He folded the paper up and forced it back behind the brick. Captain Washington would be pleased with this. Arcade had doubted himself when the Spy had asked him to gather intelligence, thinking he would never find anything of note but as it turned out Caesar was not very guarded with what he said about slaves, regarding them more as furniture than people who could hear all his plans.

The slave turned doctor strolled out of the rest room – opposite the door a small painting hung from the wall. It was one of the mass produced ones showing a mountain with some fields that could be found in pre-war casinos and hotels. Giving a final glance to be sure no-one was watching Arcade lifted it off its hook and placed the painting on the floor – his sign to Washington that he had information. With a smile on his face Arcade made his way back to his room, felt better than he had in weeks, Caesar was going to be kicked out of the Mojave – and he got to be a part of it.

* * *

><p>Manny wished he could staring up at the stars in boredom like every other watch. He wished it could be as every watch was – dreadfully boring and a test of will not to fall asleep. He wished it could be like that, but unfortunately it was not. Instead something was moving in the darkness. He turned and glanced at the others on watch, the new girl Sunny Smiles and one of Blueball's mercs – a bull of a man who went by the name of Mar.<p>

"Did you see that?" He hissed. Mar looked up.

"What that?" His eyes scanned the darkness.

"Something moved out there."

"Something human shaped." Sunny put in from the other side.

"Fuck." Mar growled. "Fuck, think its Legion?"

"Could be a scavenger or a ghoul." Manny suggested. "Don't want to raise the alarm over nothing."

"We could go investigate." Mar suggested. Manny nodded.

"Sunny stay here, we can't leave the perimeter undefended." The spotter and the merc climbed out of their foxhole and unslung their rifles. They slowly and carefully made their way towards the the outskirts of the now deserted Novac, they had been the first to flee south and the first to be captured in the Legion's net. Manny stopped in his tracks when he heard a noise coming from behind one of the sheds. As silently as they could the pair made their way around it to find something they did not expect. A supermutant knelt on the ground, its face and hands buried into the side of a dead brahmin. They could hear the monster chew and tear pieces of flesh off with its bare hands. But in the middle of that they heard an all together more disturbing noise. The cocking of a gun.

"I guess curiosity killed the sniper." A gravelly voice said behind them. Manny's eyes met with Mar's and both men gave a slight nod. They flicked the safeties off and spun round. Before Mar had even made it ninety degrees two bullets went through his torso, the sound muffled by a suppressor. Manny at least got a look at his attacker, if not a shot before he was hit. He dropped his rifle as the two bullets entered through his chest and went out through his back. His shooter was a ghoul in camofluage gear.

"What happened?" The supermutant pulled its head from the brahmin.

"You let your guard down, Dog." A ghoul scowled, as much as one could while looking like a ghoul, at the mutant. "That's what happened."

"Sorry." The beast sounded almost childlike in that moment. Mar groaned tried to pull his pistol out of its holster. "No!" the mutant growled and before Manny could even register what was happening a huge booted foot was brought down upon Mar's skull, crushing it completely. Not so childlike now. The ghoul sighed and reached into his pocket.

"Subtlety as ever Dog is you strong point." The ghoul said as he pulled out what looked like a walkie talkie.

"Boss, its me here." The ghoul said into it. "We may have an issue."

"What is it?" A voice Manny recognised but could not put a name or face to answered back.

"Some of Boone's guys found us, we've dealt with them but I think we might need to ramp up the speed of things." There was a few seconds pause before the reply came.

"Pack up and leave the area, I'll be visiting very soon." The ghoul gave a slight chuckle and put the walkie back in his pocket.

"I'm going to tell the other, Dog – you deal with these two." Manny looked up to see a grinning supermutant and a raised boot.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for the long update time<em>

_As an aside I retconned Cato's promotion to Primus Pilus to Legate instead after I realised a bit of Caesar dialogue in the game hints that there is more than one Legate which would mean if Cato was Primus Pilus he would not be the 3rd most powerful man in the Legion._


	7. The Calm Before The Storm

**T**he fighting elite of the Legion split, half travelled north with Lanius while the other went south under Cato. The First Cohort of the Legion stood twice the size of any other six of its centuries going with each Legatus. Each man of it was experienced, even those who stood in line where recruits would find themselves in other cohorts had fought a half dozen battles. They marched lock and step in their disciplined columns – veterans and a small force of Praetorians at the head of each column and a small army of slaves at the rear. The red banners wafted with the wind as they towered above the marching troops. It was an army the likes of which had not been seen since before the bombs fell and sometimes Arcade truly did believe that it could conquer the world, if it did not destroy itself first.

The Legates' rivalry had become something of an amusement for Gannon, they oft refused to speak to each other – sending messengers from their perspective lairs. Each had their own personalised banner beneath the Legion's Bull – a wolf for Cato and a deathclaw for Lanius. Caesar's two dogs of war, Arcade considered them, unsure of which one he hated more. Lanius was a beast, an intelligent beast he had learned, but a beast none the less – he did not comprehend an enemy he could not kill nor anyway to deal with it but violence. Cato on the other hand was calculating and cautious. He was just as willing to be as savage as Lanius but only when it served a purpose. That was evident enough by the squirming figure of Motor-Runner in the field of Mars.

The raider had apparently drawn a shiv when presented to Caesar and had made it no more than a foot towards the throne before Cato had grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and yanked him back. The Legate had broke his arm before stomping on his knee with a booted foot. Caesar wanted him executed there and then but Cato had requested to be given his time with the prisoner. Caesar had consented and Motor-Runner was beaten within an inch of his life before Arcade himself was assigned to make sure the Fiend lived. Then he had been crucified after a round with the Legion's torturers. Arcade could see Cato's Wolf's head helmet in the distance, seemingly staring at his handiwork. The wolf head then turned to look at the Lucky 38 and the Legate snapped a clean, crisp salute in its direction. Arcade could almost feel his eyes and arrogant smirk.

"Bastard." Arcade muttered, turning back to look at Caesar, who at that moment was reclining on his throne, reading yet another book form the follower's library. The Slaver was in no mood for chess, his pride too wounded by the last defeat. He seemed content to sit and read, occasionally posing a question to Arcade – meaningless queries and attempts feed his ego by outsmarting the doctor.

"Why do you trust Sandy so much?" Gannon decided it was his turn to pose a question. Caesar fixed him with a glare before laying down his book.

"I trust Cato" Caesar stressed the courier's new name. "Because he is useful, loyal..." Arcade snorted, earning a disapproving look from Caesar.

"Sandy was loyal to the Mr. House when it paid - the NCR too, as well as the Courier Service, several caravans and anyone else with enough caps to fund the next slaughter he could amuse himself with." The doctor interrupted earning a nod of agreement from Caesar. "You know all this yet still you promote him?" The Slaver climbed to his feet and marched to the window.

"Lucius – leave us." He commanded and without a word the Praetorian left Arcade and his master alone in the room. "I promote Cato, because if I did not he would merely promote himself." He said bitterly. "The news that I would promote him was on the lips of every Legionary before I knew he was back in the city." Caesar scowled and poured himself a drink downing it in one go. "He is a wolf, my wolf and I will throw him against the my enemies until he falls."

"And if the wolf turns rabid?" Arcade ventured, hoping Caesar's anger would not turn to him.

"Then he shall be put down." Caesar said with a sudden vigour. "Lanius is his match with a blade, Gaius Magnus has a way with strategy and there are a dozen other Legatus who would flay him alive at my orders. Leave me now Arcade and speak of this to no-one or Motor-Runner's fate will seem a mercy."

* * *

><p>"<strong>H<strong>ow many are there?" Cato demanded of his scout, already knowing the correct answer.

"Fifty, maybe sixty, Legate." He answered. Close enough – Raul counted fifty four, well fifty two now after Dog stamped on some skulls. Fifty two against a half cohort of four hundred and eighty.

The outcome would not be in doubt but it was fifty two dug in, well armed, well lead mostly trained men and women. An all out charge would yield terrible losses but they did not have the time for a siege. Lanius would beat him back to Nova Roma and he could ill afford that. Cato dismissed the man and glanced around, they were maybe twenty minutes march to the factory, a good enough place to camp.

"Vexillarius!" He called, the grizzled veteran who went by the name of Macro was by his side in an instant. "We're making camp here, summon the Centurions to me." The Legionary saluted and blew a series of patterns through his horn and before long the each member of the column was doing their assigned tasks – slaves set up tents and prepared meals as the Legionaries dug a ring of ditches and within half an the camp had clear lines, a defended perimeter and hot meals on the way.

Cato's personal slaves went to their task like clockwork, erecting his pavilion and setting out his personal effects such as his armour stand and a trestle table at the pavilion's entrance. The Centurions arrived not long after, having given their men the watch rotation. The last to arrive was Aurelius of Phoenix, marching with his usual swagger he fixed Macro with a glare before taking his place by the table.

"Where is your man Porcino?" He demanded of the Legate. Cato bristled and drew his lips back into a snarl.

"Indisposed. Now learn your place, Centurion." There was a slight chuckle from the other Centurions. Each stood at their place studying a map of the Novac area, drawn up the Speculators prior to Caesar's arrival in the Mojave.

"The enemy is dug in, well supplied and well armed – with experience in the main but several of their number are refugees or caravan guards. The only path is down a narrow road and so a head on assault would yield many dead..." Cato traced it along the map, remembering his journey there – some twenty dead and a good amount of scavenge, a good day by all measurements.

"It is of no matter." Aurelius interrupted. "End it quickly. I shall lead the charge myself if you are too cowardly." Cato sighed and loosened his sword belt.

"I've had shits more dangerous than you, Centurion. Now be quiet while the adults talk." The Legate's voice was low and flat, the threat evident to all.

"Each of you shall place your best marksmen under Decanus Piso, who will provide covering fire from the ridge the main body advance up the path. Aurelius, your century may go first if you still wish for the honour." The Centurion gave a sullen nod.

"The advance shall begin at noon tomorrow. Until then each Vexillarius take it in turn to venture as close as they dare to the factory and sound the trumpet loud and long, we shall wear the enemy down mentally before we take their heads. Macro, you are first." The Legate's personal Vexillarius saluted and made his way out of the camp, a small escort going with him. "That is all men, I want the Cohort ready ready to march by dawn." Each Centurion snapped a salute before marching to their men and off in the distance the trumpeting began. Cato felt a smile creep onto his face.

"I'm coming for you Boone."

* * *

><p>"<strong>W<strong>ill someone go and shut that fucker up?" Blueballs roared, throwing his lunch against the wall. Boone glanced up from his own plate.

"The moment we leave our positions they'll shoot us down like dogs." The Sniper said, taking a bite of the sandwich. Some of Marcinko's men had been on watch and one had gotten a bullet through the skull when he tried to make it back to the factory, the rest were now stuck in their foxhole waiting for the inevitable.

"Well it preferable to that fucking racket!" Blueballs stormed from the room. "Learn some fucking show tunes you bastard!" Boone heard him shout as he passed a window. A few around the room gave a slight chuckle – there was no tune or rhythm to the trumpeter – just the occasional blast from different directions each time. Drip had already been on the roof attempting to hit him with a rifle but whoever it was kept out of sight.

"Seconds?" Jess asked, holding up another plate. Boone shook his head, she had been overbearing since they found Manny, assuming he needed consoling and care. Manny had been a friend, a good friend but the time for grief was long gone.

"Cross." He called to the merchant who sat on the other side of the room, looking as irritated as Blueballs, none of them had slept well that night thanks to the trumpet. "Are your guards ready to fight?"

"Why should they?" Cross answered sullenly. "This is your war with the Legion. I should go out there and make my peace."

"If we go out there they'll crucify us, Boss." One of the guards said. "I'd rather go out fighting than surrender." one of Blueballs men put in. Cross scowled at his man.

"Fine, die if you want. I'm going to hide until this is over." He scuttled from the room the glares of all the fighters, which was almost everyone.

"Jess its about time you went into the tunnels with the rest." Boone said to the teenager.

"I can fight." She protested.

"No you can't." Boone cut her off. "You have no experience with anything bigger than an air rifle and we need every gun and bullet in the hands of someone who knows how to do damage. Now go." He ordered. Jess scowled before storming from the room, followed with less drama by the other refugees who were either too old or too young to be of much use. "Everyone know their place?" He asked the others once they were alone. A series of nods was the response.

"Good. If they find that trumpet half as annoying as we do they have to be here soon." Then for the first time in his life Boone began to wonder if he was prophetic. The random trumpeting stopped and instead a pattern filled the air, one familiar to all those who served in the NCR – the Legion's advance. Boone rushed to the window and saw the crimson ranks filling the road. Rank upon rank of disciplined soldiers.

"Fuck." Someone to his left muttered.

* * *

><p><strong>A<strong>rcade did one final check for anyone following him, it was his fifth one, whatever was waiting for him he could not be found with it. The painting had been on the other side of the corridor, a sign that Washington had left something for him. When he went for the brick, three others came away with it to reveal a package the size of a small toaster wrapped in brown paper.

"What the fuck?" He whispered.

"I received a call from command."A voice said behind him. Arcade nearly crapped himself and tried to spin round, only succeeding in hitting his shoulder against the wall. Washington stood by the door, dressed in his slave rags.

"Christ, Captain you almost gave me a heart attack." Arcade complained. Washington shrugged.

"You need to be on your guard." Arcade hefted up the package.

"What is this thing?" He asked.

"Command has put the kill order out on Caesar." Washington said. "Civvies want revenge for Kimball and Military thinks taking him out now will cause the Legion to devour itself. Thanks to your intelligence they know of the rivalry between the Legates, a civil war could end the Legion once and for all."

"What is this?" Arcade repeated, fearing the answer.

"A bomb and the gear to strap it to your body." Washington answered bluntly. Arcade opened his mouth to protest but was cut off by the spy. "No-one else can get as close to him as you. They've even stopped searching you!"

"No." Arcade said, his voice a whisper. "I can't." He placed the package down and tried to leave. Washington grabbed his arm and held it in a vice like grip.

"You saved Caesar's life, before that you stitched the new Legate up a dozen times as he sabotaged for Caesar."

"I didn't know about it back then." Arcade tried to justify.

"But you still did it. And now because of that hundreds have died, thousands enslaved. You can end it all, you can save generations from misery and subjugation." Washington pleaded, his voice desperate. "Four of my men have been caught already, we don't have much time." Arcade could not meet his eyes. "In death you can stop a tyrant."

"Fine." Arcade consented. "I'll do it. I'll kill the bastard."

* * *

><p><em>Once again, sorry for the long update time.<em>

_If you read this and enjoy it or hated it or have mixed feelings please review_


	8. The Storm

Cato gazed upon his crimson ranks as the Fourth Century, Aurelius', surged forwards towards the factory – their tight ranks dissolving as the Legionaries split and ran for cover, the slower and more unfortunate falling to the rebels' bullets. The sun was at its peak, bearing down upon the fighters with all its fury. Some of the other centuries attempted to hide in the shade while they awaited their turn, before being forced back into formation by their bawling Decanii. Slaves ran among the Cohort, filling up the fighters' water bottles and bringing up spare pilum, swords, daggers and axes for any Legionaries who spotted flaws in their current weapons.

Aurelius charged with his men whilst the other centurions gathered around Cato's personal banner with the Legate and his Praetorian guard. They had a reasonable view of the field without being in the sights of the rebel sharpshooters.

"The charge is faltering." Centurion Laebo commented as dozens of Aurelius' men fell to the ground, the wounded were ignored and left to their screaming – conserving ammunition Cato assumed.

"That they are." The Legate responded dryly, watching it unfold through his binoculars. There were some dozen rebels in the ground before the factory, behind sandbags and any other form of cover, whilst another five or so were atop the roof. The rest hid behind the windows of the factory, pouring a steady and accurate rain of lead down upon the men of the Legion. Aurelius himself had so far avoided being hit, though as soon as he left his cover it became evident enough that his plumed helmet was a target for every marksman in the factory. The Centurion roared encouragement to his men as he made his way, cover by cover, towards the factory.

"Decanus Piso and his men should be providing better cover." Laebo added as a bullet grazed Aurelius' shoulder and sent him stumbling to dive behind a small pile of debris as cover. Much to Cato's disappointment the Centurion got to his knees and waved on the nearest group of Legionaries. Many of his recruits had fallen and now the Primes had begun their advance, this group at least being able to return fire made far better progress but with no less progress.

"That they should." Was all Cato could answer with as he once more scanned the windows, looking for a good vantage point that Boone might have chosen for his place. The Centurions around him were now getting twitchy, each one champing at the bit to join in the charge. A cheer rose from the ranks as the veterans of the Fourth Century threw their weight behind the charge.

One surviving recruit, perhaps either the bravest or most foolish among the century, abandoned any notion of self-preservation or cover and charged the enemy position – spurred on by the inclusion of the veterans, Cato presumed. As if under the protection of some divine being he went ignored by the defenders until he had made some serious ground and even as they directed their guns towards him the Legionary went untouched.

Dirt and pebbles were thrown upon him in every direction as the bullets fell short, wide or went past. As he drew closer the Legionary grasped his pilum overarm and drew back. Without slowing in his advance the recruit's body rocked through the motion he had been taught since adolescence and cast his javelin towards the enemy. It sailed with a slight arc through the air and to the cheers of the Fourth Century and the observing Centurions, plunged into the chest of a rebel who came above his sandbag after reloading.

"Now if only the rest could emulate that man." Centurion Cornelius put in as the Legionary was hit by over a dozen bullets from the vengeful rebels. True to Cornelius' hopes the men of the Fourth Century threw themselves forwards with renewed vigour. They charged once more, several following their now dead comrade's example and ignored the need to find cover. Two of them vaulted over the nearest sandbag, falling upon the rebel behind it. His screams joined those of the wounded as the blades cut into his flesh. The two men were overtaken by another five men but before the gap between them had gone beyond three paces there was an explosion. Not a big one but still enough to send all five to the ground. One was able to climb his feet before a bullet took him whilst the rest rolled around in pain on the ground.

"They have a grenade launcher." Laebo observed, finally pushing Cato to his limit. The Legate turned on the Centurion.

"Would you be so kind to remind at which point this morning you were asked for a running commentary." He snapped. Laebo opened and closed his mouth a few times. "No? So kindly cease that annoying activity you call talking." The others laughed and in an attempt to save some pride Laebo went to protest.

"Now go and join your Century, if the Fourth fails I expect you to carry the day." Reluctantly the Centurion saluted and jogged down to his men. Cato neglected to watch him go and instead tightened the straps on his armour. He had left the Legate's armour and bumper sword in his tent, preferring his lighter Centurion's armour and gladius for the work ahead.

"Send in the prisoners with the next Century." Cato ordered one of the Praetorians who ran off to pass on the order. Some two dozen captured NCR soldiers, Fiends and Powder Gangers had been brought south with the army, all dressed in NCR fatigues. They would be sent out as human shields – either the rebels would try and avoid them, allowing the Legion to gain ground, or they would gun them down and waste bullets. Once more the Fourth's advance was faltering, due in no small part to the grenade launcher that sent any Legionaries foolish enough to gather in large groups to an early grave. Aurelius was struggling to keep them going in the face of such a steady and accurate rain of bullets. The Legion would never break and run but they could not be expected to fight a battle where merely advancing would mean death.

"They need some encouragement." Macro observed. "Shall I trumpet them along, sir?" Cato considered it but shook his head. Taking a deep breath the Legate strode forwards and drew his gladius.

"**Mars**!" He roared with all the strength of his lungs, thrusting the blade into the air.

"**Exulte**!" Was the instant response from the Cohort.

"**Mars**!" The Praetorians and Centurions took up the cry. "**Exulte**!" Hearing the roar from their brothers in arms those remaining of the Fourth added in their voices and charged once more. The Centurions continued the chant as Cato turned to Macro.

"Tell the drummers to play up some encouragement." The Vexillarius nodded and ran off to the squad of slaves who stood before the great war drums that took a Brahmin to carry a pair. They began to beat a strong rhythm as Macro trotted back.

"Legate!" A voice called from behind. Cato gave the assault once final glance before sheathing his gladius and turning around. A dust covered Legionary stood between two sentries, gasping for breath.

"Letter from Nova Roma." The man gasped, pulling the letter from behind his armour. "Marked high priority, sir." Cato snatched it from his hands.

"See that he has a drink and some food." Cato ordered one of the slaves, who bowed and led the messenger away, struggling to keep him from collapsing. Cato broke the seal and unfolded the paper and there written in a familiar script with no stamp or indicator towards its writer.

_It has been done, fruition will come soon._

Cato had to resist the urge to smile as he tore the letter into over half a dozen pieces and threw it into the air.

"Sound the advance." He ordered and with a look glee Macro pressed the horn to his lips and played the familiar tune. In response Laebo's century hefted their weapons as the prisoners were driven forwards. "Take my standard to the front." Cato ordered the Vexillarius, doing a final check of his armour straps. "I want it placed atop the stairs, other than that you have your orders." Macro saluted and jogged off.

"Aemilius, you have command." The Legate informed the Centurion he trusted the most, a sound cautious man who would not throw the entire force forwards the moment he was left alone. "Praetorians, with me. We have work to do."

* * *

><p>Cato crouched low as he crept along the dusty stones of the ridge. The sound of the battle below covered any noise the movement he and his guard could make. Even still there was no speaking between them, just the masks of grim determination – the Legion never were a cheery lot, Cato thought, and the Praetorians were the dourest of the bunch. Two of the Praetorians – stone faced killers whose names Cato had never bothered to ask carried thick bundles of rope around their shoulder and like Cato each only wore lightweight armour. The Legate did not know their quality personally but they were good enough to be a member of Caesar's guard and that was a good enough guarantee for Cato.<p>

"Sir?" One of them spoke up from behind. "Sir?" He said once more after Cato ignored him.

"What?" Cato hissed, snapping his head to face the man.

"Shouldn't this attack have been launched earlier to prevent the losses?" He queried.

"The point is not to save lives here." Cato told him. "We're here to find someone." Cato did not wait for a response and continued on. They were close now, having already passed the last of Piso's marksmen – well his body to be precise, the young recruit that more balls than brains and had chosen a spot that gave him a commanding view of the battle, unfortunately it gave the sharpshooters on the Factory's roof a good view of him too.

Cato felt his hands clamming up, he was far more nervous than he had been in recent memory and all because of a ghost. Why hadn't the bastard just died like he was supposed to, Cato cursed before forcing himself to stifle a smile. He was the last person in the world to accuse others of not dying when they should.

The small troop, numbering fifteen in total made their way along the ridge until Cato ordered them to halt and crawled his way up to the edge. The factory lay beneath him; the waves of Legionaries' were slowly making their way forwards, metre by metre – paying for each step in blood. Prisoners ran forwards as they were forced to the front by prodding spears. At first they were ignored by the rebels until Cato heard someone call from below.

"Open fire on the NCR uniforms!" A commanding voice ordered. Some dispute followed until the voice put an end to it. "They could be Legion!" Bullets tore into the captives as they sprinted forwards. One began to wave his hands in the air.

"Sergeant Brooks! 3rd Rifles, out of Reno – don't sh..." The man was cut off as a bullet tore through his flesh. Cato dragged his eyes from the battle and scanned the roof before him. It was plain, no adornments to separate it from the dozens of other factories in the country but it had what Cato needed – a door into the factory. A sniper crouched by edge, popping his head up and taking a shot into the advancing Cohort with deadly efficiency. It was however, not Boone, but some man Cato had never seen before in NCR uniform. By the sound of it there was another shooter on the roof but the doorway obscured Cato's line of sight to whoever it was.

The Legate pulled Joshua Graham's pistol from his belt and sighted it at the sniper. Taking a deep breath Cato pulled the trigger three times in quick succession and watched in satisfaction as all found their target. The sniper jerked up straight before slumping forwards and lying still. Turning back, Cato gestured for the Praetorians to join him.

"You." He pointed to the one who had questioned him earlier. "Go first." A brief moment of shock crossed the soldier's face before he steeled his emotions and went back some distance for a run up.

As he braced himself the rest moved out of his path. The Praetorian sprinted forwards in a sudden burst of movement and leapt into the gap. He flew through the air, his cloak billowing behind him. It made for a majestic sight Cato conceded, well until he slammed into the wall of factory and fell out of sight with a cry. Cato leaned out over the edge, the man's body lay dashed upon the stones at the foot of the factory, his skull split open and his skin cut to the bone.

"Bugger." He muttered, turning back to the others. "This might have been a better starting point – who's the best runner or jumper?" There was a brief discussion among the Praetorians until one raised a hand.

"I was the fastest in my Cohort before my promotion, Legatus." He said, proudly.

"Take your turn then." Cato ordered him. The Praetorian saluted and in a wise move, undid his cloak. Handing it to a comrade the Praetorian took his place before stretching. Then he shot forwards, moving with greater acceleration than Cato would have thought any man was capable off. He made the leap with ease, hitting the roof with a perfectly executed roll.

At that moment the second sniper came around the corner, no doubt investigating the noise. Still not Boone, Cato lamented as the Praetorian came up from his roll and in one smooth move close-lined the sniper. The rebel was thrown to the ground, his rifle flying out of his hand. Before he could recover the Praetorian was atop him, raining blows down upon his skull. Five swift punches to the head, aided by the ballistic fist, and the rebel was dead. That, Cato reminded himself, was why these men were chosen as the personal guard of Caesar.

The Praetorian gave the rebel one final blow just to make sure and moved back to the edge, where one of his comrade threw the rope to him. It was tied to a vent on his side and to a strong enough looking rock on the Legate's side, with a Praetorian gripping it on only side just to be safe. Cato went first, gripping on the rope tight and shuffling along – his knees turning white from the pressure exerted on them.

"Name?" Cato demanded of the Praetorian after he made it over.

"Septimus." He grunted from his place by the rope. The next Praetorian had begun the cross and the rope began to strain against the vent. After realising it would take a fair amount of time for the entire group to cross Cato wandered off and checked the rest of the roof. The snipers were alone – small, near empty boxes of ammo by their spots. The guns were of good make, not Gun Runner quality but better than most of the trash carried by scavengers and bandits in the wasteland. So Boone found a source then, Cato mused as he glanced down at the battle. The charge was closing in, inch by inch but it moved at a snail's place. There would be a sudden burst of organised gunfire from the Legion then the fastest runners would sprint to as far away cover as they dare.

"Oh shit." A voice said. Frowning, Cato turned around. By the open door of the stairwell stood two men and a woman. Both men carried boxes of ammunition that threatened to spill from their arms and the woman hefted a heavy machine gun over her shoulder. The man at the front wore an NCR uniform while the others the leather armour of a scavenger or a mercenary. The NCR soldier dropped his boxes and fumbled for his pistol. Much to his misfortune Cato was faster and bullets tore into his body before his fingers even touched the grip. Cato turned the gun on the woman and pulled the trigger. His reward was a hollow _click. _There was a brief second as both sides watched each other in silence, neither rebel was armed beyond the machetes at their hips – Cato's only weapon the gladius in its scabbard.

"Sir?" Septimus' voice called from the other side of the door, breaking the tension. The woman, a thick armed brute with a carving on her forehead, and the man, tall, lean and gaunt, glanced behind the door and saw the rope.

"Cut it!" The man ordered, dropping his boxes. The woman cast aside her gun for it was far too cumbersome to use in a situation such as this. Both drew their machetes as Cato ripped his gladius from it scabbard. The woman dashed toward the rope as the man threw himself at Cato with a snarl. Rather than meet the blade Cato threw his pistol at the man's head. The man swayed out of its path, off-balance as Cato bulled into him.

The woman sidestepped around Septimus, who left his place supporting the rope to assist his legate, and swung her blade down onto the thick rope. It snapped into the air and flew towards the gap, sending the unfortunate Praetorian clinging to it plunging towards the rocks. Septimus leaped for it and managed to grasp the end. It began to drag the Praetorian towards the edge before he could dig his feet in. The woman cut at him and it took all the Praetorian's skill not to lose his grip or footing as he swayed out of the blade's path.

Then Cato was upon them, slashing and stabbing with ferocity. The woman managed to parry or dodge the first four blows before the fifth took her high in the arm. Flinching back, she managed to duck beneath the next slash but left her neck exposed. Before the Legate could follow up he turned instinctively as the man came up on his peripheral vision. He turned in time to block the blow and within a second the tide had turned. Cato was skilled with a blade but holding off two foes was difficult for any man. They drove him back, scoring a small knick on his shin and forearm.

The Legate stepped inside a slash from the man, throwing a thundering punch into his jaw. The rebel stumbled back, giving Cato time to draw his dagger from his boot and move away from the edge. The pair went to either side of him but he threw himself at the scarred woman, his dagger and gladius striking out like a snake at any unprotected flesh. Before any fatal blow could be struck the man once more joined the fight.

Cato was once more pushed back, near both his physical and the literal edge but from the left came a crimson blur as Septimus tackled the woman. The Praetorian who had just crossed had taken his place at the rope and now went about retying it to the vent. Both the rebel and Septimus rolled to their feet and squared off before attacking. The woman swung high, a blow Septimus caught on his vambrace before delivering a hook with his free hand – which was returned with a stinging straight to his solar plexus.

Giving an almost feral grin Cato moved towards the man. He attacked without grace or finesse but as a wild storm. For every blow that the rebel could block another came soon after. The dagger stabbed into the rebel's thigh to a grunt of pain. Cato struck high, his gladius met by the machete and for a moment the two pushed the blades against each other.

That moment was all that was needed – the dagger was pulled from the rebel's leg and plunged into his ribcage. He let out a wordless gasp, oblivious to the following two blows that left blood pouring from his side. Cato took a step back and slashed his gladius across the rebel's throat. Blood burst from the wound as the rebel as he sank to his knees. He stretch his arm out towards the woman before he slumped the ground and lay still as his lifeblood was pumped from his body. Cato covered the ground between him and the woman, whose back faced him as he wrestled with Septimus, in two quick strides and drove his gladius through her back and into her heart. She died as quiet as she had been in battle as she collapsed to into Septimus, who dumped her unceremoniously on the ground.

Cato looked up at Septimus after wiping his blade on the woman's clothes.

"I want you beside me in the battle." He told the panting Praetorian.

"As you command, Legatus."

"Now tell the others to hurry up, I have a sniper to kill."


	9. The Fall

Captain Marcinko was bowled to the side by one of his men as a Legion marksman on the ridge sighted his rifle at the Captain.

"Thank you." The Captain patted the soldier on the shoulder – Hopkins, one of Cross' guards. Well it was Hopkins - the Captain had to correct himself after he noticed the rather large hole in the back of his head. A blood stain splattered the wall where Hopkins had been standing. So less being pushed to safety by a brave soldier, Marcinko mused, and more being fallen on by a dead guy. Not that it mattered, Marcinko was grateful for any lifesaving actions, regardless of whether the other party was alive enough to mean it.

"How's ammo looking?" He shouted to the others as he rolled the body off him and took up his place.

"Ain't got enough for all of them, sir." Private Wells shouted from his position as he reloaded his service rifle.

"Complain to me once you've ran out then!" Marcinko sprayed another burst into the attackers. It pained him to shoot those in NCR uniform but now was no time for doubt and they could have easily been a Legion ploy to get their own men close to the factory.

The order had been accepted, but not well, by the NCR troops, Blueballs' men had agreed readily enough whilst some of the refugees seemed almost enthusiastic. The patchwork force was bigger than any other the Captain had ever commanded but no-one else would take the job. Boone had gone off to his vantage point in his tranquil fury and Blueballs had admitted that he was far too hot-headed to command any defensive force.

The Legion was drawing closer now; the defenders outside the factory attempted to run to safety and were cut down like animals. A group drew close but were once again cut down by the determined fire of the defenders and, when it was needed, Blueballs' grenade launcher.

"They're pushing up the right!" Someone shouted and the advancing Legionaries felt the full fury of the NCR troops' disciplined fire. They knew the drill, Marcinko thought as he retook his place at the window – noting the dead body of the Legion sharpshooter (Boone's work most likely or Ford and Campbell on the roof). Short, controlled bursts – conserve your ammunition and actually hit your target, a concept that seemed to escape many of the refugees and some of Blueball's less professional mercs. But they were hitting the main formation at least and that's all Marcinko could ask for at the moment.

"I'm out!" A voice from below shouted. "Check the dead for spare." Blueball's voice answered. Marcinko squeezed the trigger and sent more bullets flashing towards the slaver army that drew ever closer. Soon Marcinko expected to hear the thunder of the machine gun crewed by Corporal Spence and the dour duo of Drip and Sunshine but it never came. Another minute passed and still no machine gun.

"Wells!" Marcinko shouted.

"Yes, sir." Replied the soldier, ducking out from his place at the window.

"Go and tell Spence to hurry up with that bloody gun." Ordered Marcinko. The Private nodded and jogged for the door to the roof. Wells grasped for the handle for the door to the roof and instead it exploded inwards, the edge catching him on the jaw.

Blood and teeth sprayed through the air as the soldier was thrown against the wall. Marcinko glanced up in confusion as a group of crimson clad soldiers inexplicably piled through the door. Wells was beaten, kicked and slammed against the wall by one as the rest charged the soldiers. Shouts and war cries filled the corridor, punctuated by the stomping of boots and gunfire.

"For Caesar!" Most of the Legion shouted, others simply roared wordless cries but Marcinko was certain he heard "Boone!" screamed on more than one occasion.

In the tight corridors the NCR troops struggled to bring their rifles to bear as the Legionaries fell upon them, though oddly enough only one carried a gladius. The rest seemingly consigned themselves to beating their enemies to death, something they did with expert skill. One grabbed the barrel of a soldier's service rifle before she could fire and threw it to the side as he launched a rocketing punch into the woman's throat. Sergeant Nieto had let go of his bulky rifle and threw himself at the one with the sword, dragging his knife from its sheath and fell upon him. The man offhandedly parried the blade, lazily if Marcinko had to call it anything, and threw Nieto past him – onto the waiting ballistic fists of the others.

"Legion in the building!" The cry went out. "Legion on the top floor!" someone else shouted as the crimson soldiers scythed their way through the defender. At this range the Legion were in their element, these soldiers more so than most. Marcinko could swear he had seen the man with the sword before and decided to go out on a limb.

"Courier!" He shouted a challenge.

Legate Cato Viator, formerly Courier Sandy Levitt glanced up – and saw the NCR Captain's levelled barrel. Throwing himself the side the Legate narrowly avoided the hail of bullets that instead filled a Praetorian behind him. The others rushed forwards to avenge their comrade.

"Don't kill him." Cato ordered as he got to his feet. Marcinko turned his gun on the next man only to be caught by a haymaker blow from his blindside that made his world flash white. He stumbled into the next blow, this one coming from the man he had aimed at – a hook to the ribs that took the wind from him. Dropping to one knee the Captain felt his rifle drop from his hands. Still defiant, Marcinko went for his pistol, only to find his arm pulled to the side and a blinding pain as one of the Legion broke the arm at the elbow.

Cato stalked over to the man as the Praetorians charged onwards to fresh enemies. Septimus held the captain by the scruff of the neck with one hand as he removed his pistol and cast it aside. Cato towered over the soldier, glaring down at him over his hooked nose. Blood dripped from his gladius onto Marcinko's chest. Cato gestured to Septimus and the battered Captain was pulled to his feet.

"Where is Craig?" Cato asked, trying his best to look magnanimous. Silence was his only answer. "Craig Boone? Sniper? Bit on the stoic side?" Marcinko hawked and spat bloody phlegm at the Legate.

"Fuck you." He growled . Cato chuckled and wiped the spit from his cheek.

"Oh that one never gets old." The Legate muttered before sighing and ramming his gladius into the Captain's chest.

* * *

><p>"Fall back!" Blueballs' voice drifted through the walls and into Cross' hiding place – as did the sound of doors being broken down. Legion had broken through the defenses then, the merchant assumed. It was always going to happen, he knew, or did a bunch of barely trained refugees, braggart mercenaries and a handful of soldiers think they could defeat the army that so handily whooped the only other major power just a few weeks ago.<p>

Cross knew better and that, rather than cowardice was why he told himself that he was currently hiding in one of the many custodian's closets rather than outside with a gun. He tried that once – hit nothing over four days of running skirmishes and got a bullet in the side and a knife in the arm for his troubles. Then the NCR had rolled into the area and annexed his village and Cross had learnt an important truth that as a semi-civilised tribal he had never thought of – why fight when you can pay others to do it for you? With this lesson in hand he had never once had to fire his own pistol in over twenty three years of trading.

A crackle of gunfire came from somewhere to his left. Followed by a small explosion straight ahead – that'll be Blueballs he guessed. The gunfire was soon replaced by the tell-tale sounds of close quarters combat, grunting, the clash of blades and the screams as they bit into flesh. Such sounds soon came from every direction as the Legion spilled into the building and any semblance of an organised defence vanished.

Cross knew what he needed to do to survive. The same thing he'd done a half dozen times before in his life: wait until the fighting finished then make any moves to ingratiate himself with the victors. After a few minutes the fighting still did not drop in its intensity as far as Cross could tell from the sounds. The sounds of explosions grew fewer until for the last minute there had been none – so either Blueballs is out of ammo or the Legion are too close to use it.

The answer turned out to be both Cross discovered as Blueballs barged into the room, pistol in hand and with Legion hot on his heels. Cross pulled the door to his closet shut as they closed in on the mercenary, cutting down the few of his followers still with him. Through the door Cross heard the muffled sound of gunshots and war cries.

Creaking the door open slightly Cross peaked out. Blueballs' pistol lay to the side, the hand that had held it was now bleeding profusely with two of its fingers joining the gun on the ground. He faced a group of Legion with only a machete. One Legionary darted in, thrusting with his knife. Blueballs snapped round and slashed at the man. Before the blade hit another Legionary stepped in from the other side and hacked into the merc's back, deftly skipping back to avoid Blueballs' response. This action was repeated three more times. One baited him whilst another struck at his flank. One had not even drawn his sword and instead broke ribs and bones with the Legion Standard he carried.

"Enough!" A voice called and a centurion stepped into the room, a man Cross knew well from his trade route between Novac and the Mojave Outpost: Aurelius of Phoenix. Every merchant who worked that route and didn't want their caravans attacked paid the Legion tribute through him, the smug abrasive asshole that he was.

The Centurion stepped in, waving the others back. Blueballs eyed the newcomer, blood flowing from several deep wounds, the fingers of his good and adjusted their grip on the machete. With a snarl the merc threw himself forwards. Aurelius' free hand shot out, grasping Blueballs' wrist before he could finish the cut then with a disdainful look in his eyes he sent a backhand cut that opened the mercenaries' throat. As he choked on his own blood Blueballs sagged to the floor and died in silence.

The standard bearer walked over and picked up the merc's pistol as all but Aurelius and two other marched from the room in the pursuit of fresh prey.

"What are you waiting for, go and hunt down the others." The Centurion ordered the three of them. "Try killing them quickly this time rather than playing your games in the middle of battle." He added. The Standard bearer looked up from his examination of the gun and regarded the Centurion coldly.

"You were supposed to die in the charge." He said. Before the frown could fully form on Aurelius' face the two others leapt in and pinned his arms as the Standard bearer raised the pistol and shot him three times in the chest. A raspy wheezing sound escaped the Centurion's mouth and he dropped to his knees, only the grip of the Legionary's stopping him from falling on his face.

The Standard bearer took a step closer before putting one final round in his skull. Cross watched this all through the small opening of the doors, barely moving an inch the entire time. The Standard bearer pressed the gun into Blueballs' dead hand and began to search an office room a few feet to the left of the closet. Cross still did not move – here he had witnessed something that could either ingratiate himself with the Legion if he revealed the treason, or get his head taken off. Probably the latter given his current run of luck. The sounds of battle throughout the building began to die down as the Legion made short work of the rebels in the close quarters fighting in which they excelled.

"Legatus." The Standard Bearer's voice brought Cross' senses back into the room. The three Legionaries saluted a new figure, another recognisable face – the Courier, the Traitor, the Wolf of the Mojave all depending on who you asked.

"Spring cleaning?" Cato asked with a sardonic smile on his face, delivering a swift kick to Aurelius' body.

"The infestation is nearly dealt with." The Standard Bearer responded.

"Marcellus' squad is watching the others – you now concern yourself with finding whichever dark fucking corner Boone has scampered off to. Well I mean after you drag out whoever is hiding in the closet." Cross was pretty sure he just pissed himself. Two stomped over towards the door but decided it was better to jump than be pushed Cross opened the door, stepped out and thrust his open palms in the air.

"I didn't take part in the fighting!" He shouted. "I'm just a trader – the rebels commandeered all my goods." The two men stopped, glancing back at their commander for further instructions.

"Aw and here I thought this was going to be fun." Cato seemed dejected. "Kill him quickly; we don't have time for any mucking about." Cross stepped back towards the closet.

"I can help you find Boone." He cried as the men advanced on him with swords drawn and once more stopped in their tracks. Cato crossed his arms and strolled towards the trader.

"On you go then: help away."

"Top floor, men's bathroom on the north side." Cross said. "He and Manny were up there a lot – said it was the vantage point with the best concealment."

"Bullshit – we've swept the top floor, there were a lot of shells in the shitter but sadly no sniper." The Legionaries took a step forwards.

"Wait!" Cross shouted backing away even further until he was almost in the closet once more. One of the men sighed.

"Just shut up let us get it done with." He said, drawing back his arm.

"If he's used his ammo he'll have gone to the tunnels!" Cross cringed back from a blade that never came. His eyes were closed and his arms in the air as he waited for the killing thrust.

"Boone you sneaky bastard." Cato's voice muttered followed soon by the sound of boots stomping into the distance. Cross' eyes opened slowly to see the Legionaries standing in bewilderment.

"Do we follow him?" One asked. Getting only a confused shrug from the Standard Bearer. "That's the Praetorian's task." The other said. "Well what do we do with him then?" The first one wondered – getting another shrug from the Standard Bearer. "Better safe than sorry." The second said.

"No!" Cross cried as the meaning of the words hit him and the sharp blade bit into his jugular.

* * *

><p>Cato stepped gingerly through the dank tunnels, gladius held out before him, pistol long since abandoned once he ran out of bullets. He strained to see in the dark, tensing at any movement. He know remembered with clarity the last time he had been here – ghouls screaming and clawing at him from the dark. Movement to his left. Cato spun, his blade slicing through the air and into… nothing.<p>

"Shiting yourself at tricks of the light?" A voice came from an offshoot tunnel. "I expected better from you Sandy." Cato rounded on the source.

"Boone?" He thundered. "Finally stopped running and hiding have we?"

"Nearly." The sniper's voice responded, followed quickly by the sounds of him running further down the offshoot. Cato swore and gave chase, settling into a fast jog rather than tire himself out by sprinting and running headlong into what could easily be a trap. The darkness came to an end as the chase moved into a lighted area. But even this did not help the Legate. Instead of Boone at the end of the tunnel stood a young woman in her late teens at the most instead of the veteran soldier he was expecting.

"Where is Boone?" He demanded, sliding to a stop.

"I'll never tell." She answered defiantly. A rich laughter filled the air.

"What a naïve notion. I'm sure I'll find a way." The Legate advanced on her and straight into the path of a metal door that violently swung outwards. It crashed into him with the force of a heavyweight's punch – knocking his gladius from his hand and sending blood spurting from his nose.

Boone shot out from behind it with a combat knife plunging downwards. Cato's reflexes took over and he stepped inside the blow and delivered two hooks into Boone's ribcage. The sniper felt the wind go out of him and lashed out with his free hand. Cato rolled with the blow and elbowed Boone in the forearm, his reward being the sound of the combat knife hitting the floor. He kicked the blade away before Boone could recover and dragged the sniper into a vicious head butt.

Most other men would have hit the floor but Boone was not like those men. He was a veteran of the 1st Recon and he hadn't come this far to be beaten down in a muck filled tunnel. He ducked under the next punch and delivered an uppercut that sent the Legate back a few steps. Boone did not let up – he stomped on the Legate's foot and rammed his shoulder into the lightly armoured stomach. Cato went down and dragged Boone with him. When he hit the ground Cato bucked his hips and threw his weight to the side, throwing Boone off him. Cato recovered first and was half up when Boone's foot hooked the back of his knee, pulling him back down. Boone leapt on top of him and began to rain blows down upon his skull. Cato threw up his arms as he felt the skin break on his cheeks and the tell-tale pain of one of his eyes beginning to swell. Boone did not let up and threw all his strength into the punches.

Cato jerked his head to the side at the last moment and one of Boone's fists crashed into the concrete floor with an audible crack as some of the bones broke. As he drew back in pain Cato took his chance. He sent a vicious hook into Boone's side where the machete wound that had been Cato's parting gift was. Boone cried out in pain as Cato punched him in the wound three more times before pushing the sniper off him. Boone lay on the ground clutching at his side as Cato rolled away and picked up his gladius.

"It was always going to end this way." Cato said as he drew himself up and stalked over to the sniper. "You really thought you could beat the Legion?" He said as he placed the blade on Boone's throat.

"Jess, no!" An odd answer that bewildered Cato for the half second before the combat knife plunged into his back. Pain shot through his body and the Legate dropped to one knee. Then a snarl escaped his lips and he spun around, the gladius scything through the air. Jess died before she even hit the ground, her neck half shorn off by the ferocity of Cato's swing. The knife had only just pierced the armour and the wound would heal in time Cato considering as he turned back to Boone. The sniper still lay on the floor, doubled up in pain.

"You fuck." He spat through clenched teeth.

"How eloquent." Cato commented as he crouched before Boone. The two men's eyes met, Cato finding it odd to finally look into his eyes rather than those bloody aviators. "It's been fun." He added.

"Go to hell." Boone earned himself a kick to the wound for his defiance.

"Come now is that any way to speak to an old friend?" Cato's mocking smile returned to his face.

"You're scum, the worst fucking dirt at the bottom of the bowl." Boone said. "I should have shot you the instant your ugly fucking face showed itself on the outskirts of Novac."

"Well you'll have the rest of your life to regret it." Cato drew himself up stretched out his arm. "Don't worry I'll make it clean." Boone took the arm and dragged himself up into a sitting position and closed his eyes.

A slight smile played on his lips. He had never before wondered what came after death but now only one possibility filled his mind. Carla would be there and they could be together again. Manny would be waiting for him, Cole and Switch – his brothers who died in a house fire, Ellroy – his first spotter and mentor whose heart had given out one day on a patrol and a half dozen others would all be waiting for him. When it came down to it Boone died happier than he had ever been since Carla was taken and Cato had been left to wonder why the sniper was smiling as the blade had pierced his heart.

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><p><em>Please review - as a writer feedback however brief or harsh is always nice. Plus its getting near the stage where there are more followers than reviews, which seems a tad bizarre to me<em>


	10. Thus Always to Tyrants

Arcade pulled the duct tape tight around his body – he could not imagine a worse scenario than a few bricks of c4 falling out from under his coat in front of the Praetorians. As he bit through the last piece of tape Arcade hesitated before flattening it. He did not need to kill himself, surely there were other ways.

He could sneak a gun in – too risky Washington said, misfire, bad aim, Caesar's reflexes could spell disaster for the plan. Leaving the bomb in the room and then leaving – signal range on the detonator was too low for Arcade to get to any safe distance and it would probably be found by Lucius if left for too long. Any option that didn't kill all witnesses would result in a slow demise at the hands of the Legion's torturers for Arcade. So here he was ready-ish to kill himself for a cause that he would have rather ignored. Time to make up for saving the bastard's life, Washington had said. Sighing, the doctor zipped up his coat and flattened it as to make the bomb less evident. Enough explosives to take out the entire floor and ensure the enslaving bastard didn't survive another day.

Arcade straightened his shirt, smoothed out the wrinkles in his trousers and flicked the dirt from his shoes. If he was going to go up in a great ball of flame he sure as hell wasn't going to be looking tardy as he did it. Appearances were paramount – that was one of the things Sandy and Gannon had always agreed. For Arcade it to appear to be professional and clean – in a wasteland full of junkies, murders, slavers, rapists and junkie murderer enslaving rapists fucks like the Fiends it helped the patients to have someone who wasn't as fucked as them. An anchor so to speak. For Sandy it was darker – a man needs an image he said. Something for people to associate with their fear and hatred – no wonder he loved the wolf mask so much.

"There you go: very prim and proper." Arcade said to the mirror. "Perfectly dressed to kill a King."

The walk to Caesar's room seemed longer than usual in Arcade's mind, every step felt as if he had to wade through water. Every man of the Legion he passed seemed to scrutinise him. _They know_, a small part of him said. _They know and they're going to crucify you, scratch that they're going to make what happened to the Van Graff's look like a mercy. _One guard seemed to stare at him every second he was in the man's line of sight.

"Dressed for a funeral." He was sure he heard one man comment as he walked past. _Ignore it_ The more rational part of his brain said. _You're just being paranoid, there's no way any of them could know. You haven't told anyone and neither would Washington._ This thought managed to calm him until he saw Vulpes step through the stairwell doors. _Oh shit they know, they captured Washington or one of his men and they gave you up. Now you're going to die horribly…and slowly…and probably in a weird way, the Legion torturers are some crazy fucks who can think up ways to kill you that hadn't even occurred to your average wasteland psycho. _But as he drew closer to Caesar's door and no-one leapt from the shadows to drag him to the floor it began to dawn on Arcade that he just might be able to do this. _Here goes nothing_.

* * *

><p>Vulpes Inculta rubbed his temple as he stared down at the body – Gabban, one of his one Frumentarius, stabbed in the chest and stomach almost two dozen times before having his throat slit and hastily dumped in an empty building in Freeside. A slave had seen men carrying something into the building in the night and had reported it to his overseer and after noticing the uniform the overseer had sent a runner to Vulpes. This was the fourteenth death that they knew of. Fourteen Centurions, Decanii and Frumentarii all dead in a week, stabbed multiple times and cut throats. The victims' weapons were all in still their sheaths and none seemed to have any defensive wounds. A group then most likely, Vulpes concluded, two or more would hold the victim's arms still whilst the others stabbed the victim.<p>

"Sextus." Vulpes called to his aide. "Take a squad and question every slave, freeman and Legionary from the Frumentarii barracks to here. Somebody must have seen something." The man saluted and went out the door. Vulpes crouched down by the body and closed the eyes. Gabban had been a good loyal man who had never failed an order. Why kill him? And why the others? If it was one group committing all the murders.

Slave rebellion? No, only officers had been targeted and the killings seemed too random, the men were from a number of different cohorts, several of whom had not been anywhere near the slave quarter in their assignments. The killings were all far too similar for it to be a series of unconnected murders in Vulpes' mind. What then? NCR. Unlikely, they would not waste their time and risk discovery on killing Decanii. Anyway Vulpes was confident that all the spies had been caught. The NCR Intelligence captain had been found and broken by the torturers and given up the names of most his informants week ago. Vulpes left the building and gave orders for the body to disposed of respectfully.

As he made his way back to the Frumentarii barracks the evidence floated around in Inculta's head as he considered the possibilities until one possibility struck him like a blow. Treason. Someone was purging the Legion of opponents. Who then? The Legates made no secret of their dislike of each other – now that each one was safe among a host of loyal men were they striking out supporters of the other. Was it one faction acting against the other or was this a series of reprisal killings? Or was it a third faction Vulpes had not considered. He would need to bring up the matter when next they met. Vulpes got back to his barracks and went through his daily routines as he waited for Sextus to return with any news.

He did his morning exercise, stretches, a jog around the barracks and a spar with two of his Frumentarii before retiring to his office and reading through his reports. The latest runner from Lanius' host had reported that after days of forced marches they had made contact with the 80's. A two week journey covered in six days – Lanius' typical rage being focused upon a new enemy and with any other army the troops would be too tired to fight but not the Legion, this was what they trained for. Though it was proving to be for nothing, the 80's gave almost no resistance – melting away before the wrath of the Legion and only fighting when cornered.

Cato on the other hand was showing uncharacteristic restraint. His troop had taken their time in the march south, stopping to deal with a Powder Ganger infestation in the west of the Mojave before wiping up the remains of the Fiends and other raiders in the south before swinging round and advancing on Novac, where Vulpes' man was now reporting they had the rebels cornered and awaiting a swift end. Good news from other sectors too, Hsu was now General Hsu and official commander of all NCR forces in the Eastern Theatre, depleted as they were. Any surviving officers from the campaign had been given medals and a promotions – the NCR always tried to bring some semblance of victory to defeat – a fortunate tactic which now meant Frumentarius Picus was now Major "Curtis" and Hsu's second in command due to his bravery in the fighting retreat from Camp McCarran. Picus estimated that if given the chance to win more glory and fame in the eyes of the NCR he could easily take the place of Hsu if the General were to meet his maker.

"Sir." Vulpes looked up from his letters to the Legionary who now stood in his office.

"What is it?" The Frumentarius demanded curtly, disliking being interrupted when reading.

"Caesar requests your presence immediately." Vulpes waved the man away and climbed out of his chair, whatever it was it could only be important.

* * *

><p>"So what do you think?" Caesar asked, gesturing to the map on the table.<p>

"There's a lot of red." Arcade muttered back. Caesar sighed and moved to the map.

"That's all you can say?" The frustration evident in his voice. "This is the most detailed map we know exists – every town, village, city, road, army camp, natural landmark in explored territory. And all you can comment is that there is a lot of red?"

"Well there is." Arcade snapped back. "The Legion own a lot of territory it seems."

"We do." Caesar admitted, the pride evident on his face. "Is something wrong Arcade? You don't seem to be on top form." Arcade tried to look calm, not letting his almost rampant fear onto his face.

"Just a bug I think, should be fine in a couple of days." The lie came easy enough to Arcade and Caesar seemed to accept it, though Lucius eyed him with the same suspicious look as always.

"Good, can't have my doctor getting sick, it would be unseemly." Caesar commented as he moved, as he always did, for the chess set. Arcade itched towards the trigger in his pocket – when to do it? The question plagued him as soon as he entered the room. He had thought to do it as soon as he entered the room but his body disagreed and he could not bring himself to press the button. Strangely enough there was a small part of him that wanted to wait until he could think of a good one-liner to go out to. Not that anyone would be alive to talk about it later but it was the thought that counted.

"You asked for me?" The familiar voice of Vulpes Inculta asked from the door as he strode into the room. Caesar turned, the chess set in hand.

"When?" He demanded.

"I was informed you needed me urgently." Vulpes said, nonplussed. Caesar's trademark frown returned and Lucius' brows seemed to be clashing together.

"By who?" sweat began to fall down Arcade's face, he would likely not get an opportunity better than this – Caesar, Lucius and Vulpes all in one go.

"A Legionary, his face was covered." Vulpes was looking worried now as his mind no doubt tried to deduce what possible motive there could be for the deception. Caesar looked as if he was soon to go into one of his all too common rants at someone as Lucius' eyes fixed on Arcade.

"Nervous?" He barked the question, taking a step towards the Doctor. Arcade did not reply, instead his hand circled around the trigger, his thumb over the button. Lucius began to stride across the room.

"Slave!" He growled beginning to reach out. Arcade pulled the trigger out and held it above his head, _Let the fuckers see who killed them_

"Fuck you!" He spat defiantly, all witty one-liners vacant from his mind. Lucius leapt the last few paces between them as Arcade pressed down and flame engulfed the room.

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><p><em>Hope you enjoyed, things will be coming to a head soon and a few of you may have already guessed what's going to happen. <em>

_Once more if you enjoyed it then review/follow/favourite it if you want. If you hated it then just leave a review telling me what an untalented arse i am. _


	11. The Dominoes Fall

A distinctive _crack_ of a gunshot rolled through the Legion camp, jerking half the camp from their sleep and into a vigilant awareness as they waited for any follow-up. Sentries scanned the wasteland for any source but seemed to many to come from within the camp itself. A howl and the shout of "Assassins!".

Men leapt for their weapons and armour as the Legate's personal guard rushed for his tent. Two bodies lay slumped at the entrance – Praetorian's by their dress, assigned to guard the Legate as he slumbered. The Legionaries threw themselves through the entrance to protect their commander, swords bared and many only half dressed.

The bunk was on its side, blood sprayed across the sheets and Cato Viator stood in the middle of the room a bloodied machete in his hand. Three bodies were scattered around the room, all bearded and wearing the garb of slaves – one had a gun in his hand and a dagger now embedded in his throat whilst the other carried machetes and bore the obvious slashes at the throat from Cato's gladius and bite from his cryberdogs who now licked the blood from their noses in the corner. The Legate himself had a graze in his upper arm, the gunshot – most of those now present assumed. A pair of cuts on his forearm were also evident, defensive wounds evidently, going by the blood on the dead men's weapons. Cato was breathing heavily as he glared at the men.

"How the hell did they manage to get into my tent without being noticed?" He growled at them. Most of them had the good sense to look abashed. "I want the camp turned out – every tent searched, anyone suspect is to be interrogated and anyone responsible is to be flayed. Now go!" He barked the last command at them and the soldiers ran out and spread the word whilst three pairs each grabbed a body by the legs and dragged them into the dark.

The orders were passed to the centurions (or the senior Decanii in the three centuries where their leader had died in the assault or lay on their deathbeds, stubbornly clinging to life, as was the case with Centurion Laebo) and within five minutes every single Legionary who still had the power of mobility was assembled by century before their tents. Every single man not on guard duty or in the infirmary was accounted for and so while told to be kept on alert they were dismissed back to their tents as Cato's personal century began their search of the camp – checking with each of the sentries and turning out the slaves for a harsh night time questioning.

The only remaining Praetorians – Septimus and another called Pulcher - took up positions outside Cato's tent along with four men of his century, each one appreciating that they had not been on duty earlier that night for they would have had their throats opened by either the assassins or by Cato for letting them slip past them.

Soon all the slaves were accounted for and so the search for how the men might have gotten into the camp began in earnest and in no time a series of tracks were found leading out of the camp and to a small cave where several changes of clothes were found along with an NCR radio. This much was reported to Cato around the same time a runner was spotted on the horizon, the letter in his satchel bearing dark news from Nova Roma.

"Men of the Legion!" Cato's voice rang out with its usual harshness to every man of his host as the sun rose to its apex. "We have fought and we have won – thus is the life of a Legionary." A murmur of approval rippled through the host. "But for our cowardly enemy this is not so and instead they rely on such underhanded tactics as I witnessed last night…" A growl of anger from the Legionaries. Cato held up his hands "But I was not their only target – news has reached me from the capital. Caesar is dead."

Silence engulfed the army, each man stood stunned. The death of Caesar was not something they had ever anticipated dealing with – he was the Son of Mars and he would not leave the Legion until its mission was done. The silence did not last long though, men began to shout. "What happens now?" Was asked by over half of the men in a dozen variations. "Cato! Cato for Caesar!" Others shouted. "Lanius!" and "Vulpes!" were chanted by others. Men break ranks and argue with each other, many looking close to blows or drawing their blades.

"Silence!" Cato snarled in his loudest parade-ground voice and almost let a smirk rise to his lips as it had an instant effect on the men. "Return to formation!" The men sullenly returned to their crisp, clean, lines. "Vulpes Inculta died in the same attack and the line of succession is clear!" he stared down hard at the men, a few who had shouted his name had the good sense to look ashamed. "Lanius will lead us. As the closer force we shall march to Nova Roma and secure it from attack until Legate Lanius can arrive and take Caesar's throne." Cato's eyes scanned the crowd, daring anyone to contradict him. "We march in an hour, dismissed." To a man they snapped their salutes and marched off, grateful for the commands that allowed them to latch onto the semblance of order in their world that seemed to be falling apart around them.

* * *

><p>Lanius' boots stomped their way down the rough path at a pace that seemed excessive even to his own personal guard. They had been at this relentless pace for almost the whole day and the Legate showed no signs of slowing down. He was like a man possessed ever since the news of Caesar's death, and the attempt on Cato's life – security was doubled and his personal century was to mobilise themselves for at most a five day march to Nova Roma, Lanius hoped to make it in twice the speed the march north had been.<p>

That along with his unwillingness to abandon a campaign was why the rest of the host had been left to fight the 80's under the command of Centurion Marcus. Lanius would make a quick pace to capital and secure the loyalty of the garrison cohorts and if Cato did not accept his authority then he would be forced to.

The rest of the first cohort would follow if need be but in their current state the pace set by Marcus would be unable to match that of Lanius' personal century. Among the rest of the army morale had already been low – a forced march followed by a campaign against an enemy who would not fight them did no wonders for it with the news of Caesar's death bringing many to a low that Lanius had never seen before, not in Legionaries. It was the dejected look of defeat that settled on men after they had lost hope – it was a look for the enemies of the Legion as everything they fought to protect was taken from them, to see it in the eyes of a Legionary was unnatural.

Lanius pushed such thoughts from his mind and continued on his march. Cato would likely beat him to Nova Roma but the insolent profligate could not be given the opportunity to entrench himself so now four groups of twenty men from his personal century, each accompanied by a pair of Praetorians marched south on separate paths – any potential assassins would have to figure out which was his first before they could strike.

"Sir?" Naevius strode forwards to match his pace. "The men cannot keep up this pace for much longer – they need to rest." The Legionary's voice was as close to pleading as his stoicism would allow. Lanius let a slight growl out as he surveyed the trees around him.

"There is a pre-war campsite we passed on our journey north, we will stop and rest there once we reach it." He said in a tone that brooked no discussion. Naevius being the closest thing Lanius had to being someone who was other than a mere subordinate knew to give him some space and took his place in the column where he told his comrades the news – something which was met with sighs of contentment.

"Now." A raspy voice that was almost a whisper on the wind called out and the dark dead forest was filled with a light and noise the like of which it had seen in centuries.

From among the trees over two dozen machine gunners and half as many riflemen opened fire upon the small column. Naevius' throat was ripped open as his chest, legs and arms were hit by bullets. Even as he fell to the ground bullets continued to rip into his body. Along the line it was the same with every man, most could not even turn to face their enemy before they were cut down. Lanius at least had his sword in his hand and was facing the flashing muzzles as his legs gave out beneath him and his armour was rend inwards.

"Cease fire!" The raspy voice called out. Bullets continued to tear into already dead bodies. "Stop shooting, you sons of bitches!" The voice shouted again and eventually the men got the hint, even if it did take a slap to the head to make the last half deaf gunner to stop.

Lanius – defiant to the end – swayed on his knees as his entire escort lay dead in the dirt. A ghoul emerged from the trees, flanked by two lumbering Mutants (one wearing a gardening hat that even in this situation Lanius found darkly humorous).

"Any last words, Legate?" Asked the ghoul as dozens of men and women emerged from the woods. A rumbling noise came from beneath the mask and the onlookers half expected a roar and for the Monster of the East to throw himself at them. Instead blood dribbled from the bottom of his helmet and he fell face first into the dirt.

Raul tapped the body with his foot and put three rounds into the skull. He had considered asking Dog to stomp on him but that seemed disrespectful to do that to a man who had remained upright with that many bullets in him.

"The deal is done." He called to the men behind him. "Now you take your cars, go back across the border and enjoy your payment." And without another word being said the 80's walked to their cars half a mile away and prepared to organise the general retreat from Legion territory.

* * *

><p><em>Three weeks later<em>

Vexillarius Porcino stood, Cato's wolf standard in hand and with his back to the wall of the hallway to the Aces Theatre (which due to the top three floors of the Lucky 38 being uninhabitable now acted as the Temporary headquarters of Caesar's Legion). Two tribals from the Boomers stood to his left, as stiff backed as any Legionary. Every Centurion from west of the Dam stood in the room before him, representing a great bulk of the Legion's fighting men with only the garrisons from across the Empire being unrepresented. Tempers were running high and many seemed near to blows – they were unsure of their future, afraid almost and when it came to the primal instinct the option of flight had long since been trained out of them. A Centurion from Lanius' host began shouting at a newly promoted Centurion from the Nova Roma garrison and the two advanced on each other, bawling the same argument that had been used half a hundred times in the Theatre already.

The men got close enough that their spittle was landing on each other with a fight only being narrowly avoided when the former man's superior; Centurion Marcus stepped in and pushed the men apart as he had been forced to do near twenty times already. If Cato's plan in keeping them waiting was to piss them off and make them damn near murderous he had definitely succeeded. Praetorian Septimus stood by the door with his few remaining comrades, glancing to Porcino every minute or so for any sign of Cato.

"Why is Gaius Magnus not present or any of the Phoenix garrison?" demanded one of the Centurions, a murmur of support rose up from several of the Centurions and before long more arguments broke out and once more Centurion Marcus was in the middle of it, attempting to defuse the situation.

One man pushed an opponent into a table, both men roaring at the top of their lungs at one another. Marcus stepped in between the two in time to catch a blow from his blindside to his temple. Stumbling back he tripped over another Centurion's foot and fell to the floor. Instantly men threw themselves at each other – many at the man who knocked Marcus to the floor whilst others rushed to said man's defence and a few were simply hit by stray blows and began to fight whoever came up against them.

"How was your time working for the NCR?" Cato's voice, as it often did, came out of nowhere. The Legate stood observing the madness, in his full armour with his wolf mask under his arm, his faithful hounds sitting at his side. It always astounded Porcino how a man dressed as he did always managed to move so quietly. The Vexillarius continued to stare straight ahead.

"It was an easy role." He answered. "the doctor fell for it without much skepticism."

"Well evidently." Cato commented dryly. "Else I don't think he would have gone blowing himself up." Porcino felt a slight smile creep onto his face. "Was everything else sorted out?"

"Those who could not be convinced were disposed of." The Vexillarius answered.

"Good. Now I suppose it's time we put an end to this idiocy." The Legate gestured to the fighting Centurion, none of whom had drawn their blades – not even the dumbest one was stupid enough to turn it into a bloodbath.

Porcino strode forwards into the Theatre and began to thump the base of the standard against the floor. That got the men's' attention, though a few die-hards continued to throw their punches.

"Legate Cato Viator!" That ended it instantly as the men pulled themselves apart and snapped their salutes at the superior officer who now marched through the doors, flanked by his entourage of his dogs, the tribals, a pair of priestesses and ten of his personal guard – the only non-officers in the room save Porcino.

"Are you profligates to fight your brothers at such a time?" Cato demanded and getting no reply from the ashamed officers. "You are men of the Legion, now act like it." The Legate barked as he took his place at the head table.

Silence engulfed the room as every Centurion awaited what would come next.

"Brothers, this is our darkest hour." Cato began. "Caesar dead, Lanius dead, Vulpes Inculta dead, my own life the target of such a cowardly attempt. Were we lesser men this would have destroyed us." He let the words hang in the air a minute. "But we are no lesser men, we are Legion!" He snarled the last three words.

"Legion!" Several Centurions shouted in unison. All were men from the garrison or from Cato's campaign, Porcino noted.

"We will march on! We will continue and we will fulfil Mar's mission!"

"Mars!" The same men shouted, joined in by a few others this time.

"But now, our enemies are at our gates – we must strike back and avenge our dead." There were nods of agreement all across the Theatre. "But for that, Centurions – we need a Caesar." This was the moment they had been waiting for, the moment they knew was coming. "I will be Caesar." He stated – this, they all knew, was not a suggestion, he was not throwing his hat in the ring – he was stating fact. If anyone wished to contradict this fact Cato's eyes dared them to now. But none did.

"What if the garrisons to the east refuse to accept you?" The dishevelled Marcus asked what many were thinking.

"Then they will be cut down – by the sword or by my auxiliaries' thunder." As if one cue the two Boomers took a step forwards. Silence filled the room as they digested the response – they had all seen the destructive power of the bomber and the precise artillery.

"Hail Caesar!" Porcino barked without prompting. Cato looked almost surprised, as he snapped his head round to look at the Vexillarius.

"Hail Caesar!" One of the Centurions followed on. "Hail Caesar! Hail Caesar!" More and more joined in until the chant could be heard by the guards on the street. Cato let the smirk rise to his face as the two Priestesses came alongside him – one planting the laurel wreath on his head whilst the other muttered a prayer to Mars.

"Hail Caesar!" Porcino roared once more, thrusting the standard into the air, the wolf was victorious and nothing could stop it now.


	12. Epilogue

Frumentarius Decimus, the man who once went by the name Follows-Chalk gasped for air as he dropped to one knee. The blow stung but compared to the hardships he had survived it was nothing. A bullet hurt, some of the veterans used to say, but it was nothing compared to a caning from your instructor if you messed up during training. And it was true the pain from Sulla's cane was worse than the bullet he took in the Battle of Nipton where Hsu, the only enemy Caesar credited with competence, was cut down and the NCR thrown back to the Core Regions. Nor did any number of the wounds he took during the civil war compare for they were all blunted by the euphoria of victory – the sight of Hsu's body as it was thrown down, pierced by a dozen blades and the sound, smell and sight of the bombs dropping on Gaius Magnus' last holdout, a display of raw power to cow any other would be traitors if they still had a mind to rise up after the traitors were bested in the field three times. But there was no euphoria in training, no victory, only survival – and that's why there was no pain after training was done for there was only victory, the Legion could not be stopped.

"He's got fuck all in here." Growled the raider who now rummaged through his bag. Decimus cursed silently – he had been sloppy and been too tired to place pieces of broken glass and plates at the doors and windows of the house he had called home for the night, a trick which twice already had saved his life and now he paid the price. A baseball bat to the stomach and a knife to the shoulder later Decimus watched as the four raiders went through his belongings, none of whom seemed rich enough for a gun (probably the reason they got into raiding in the first place, Decimus thought). One was working through the closet as another flipped the bed.

"Look at me!" Demanded the fourth – a giant with the baseball bat. Decimus glanced up and grinned. "What are you smiling at you stupid fu…" The Frumentarius launched himself forwards, dragging a knife from the inside of his belt as he did. The blade entered the raider's throat before he could even draw back for a blow. The blade was torn out and Decimus was on the man by the closet in a second. The knife stabbed in between his ribcage and stuck there. The raider dropped to his knees as Decimus rolled under a blow thrown by the third man, scooping up the baseball bat as he went. The Frumentarius spun round, swinging the bat as he did. It took the raider in the forehead and crushed his skull with the force of a Brahmin's kick. He lay on the ground twitching uncontrollably as Decimus advanced on the final man, who stood dumbstruck – bag still in hand.

"Where's the nearest settlement?" He asked of the frozen enemy. The raider, who seemed no older than thirteen made a strange noise halfway between a beg for mercy and the mewling noise made by mole rats as they died. "Answer me or I'll break every bone in your body." The soldier promised.

"It's about six, seven, maybe near ten miles to the south east – it's got big walls you can see it from ages away." The raider stuttered through.

"Thank you." Decimus replied before caving in the boy's skull. The elation of victory came over him as he packed up his gear and left. He strolled out the door and did the same thing he had done in the month since his bicycle broke – he walked towards the sunrise.

"What awaits us when we march east?" Caesar, the blood of his enemies still in his greying hair, had asked after the Northern Campaign that pacified the 80's, the Dog Soldiers and Nampa Coalition.

That day Porcino had despatched dozens of squads of Frumentarii and Speculators. At least one was to stop at each major population centre they came across – gathering information and establishing contacts. In this manner a chain was created which information from even the furthest flung town could reach Caesar and his faithful spymaster. Decimus was the last of his squad – twelve men settled down in towns and cities and three dead from the dangers of the wasteland – and once he reached this new town he would stay there and establish contact with the previous man.

Once the Legion reached a town with a Frumentarii or Speculator in residence the scout would follow the chain down to the farthest away outpost and establish himself in the next town. In this manner the Legion could march all the way to the east coast and never march into unmapped territory. Decimus surveyed the hills around him, a wasteland different from the Mojave – one born of Mars' fire not nature – it had felt the full wrath of the god and the earth had been moulded by it. The Profligates in this area before the judgement must have truly been weak to deserve such a punishment.

Before long Decimus found a caravan path followed it in the direction the raider had pointed him and marched his way down it with the casual arrogance the older Speculators had told him to adopt. Raiders will shy away from a walking armoury wearing power armour they said but most times walking without fear with even the lightest of protections was enough. A lightly armed man on an un-policed road should be afraid and the simple act of not being afraid when you should be, they had said, scared the shit out of your average raider. It worked more than well enough Decimus had discovered on several occasions.

Three weeks ago he had even heard the raiders arguing as he passed. They knew he had seen them but he did not run – that, they had argued, meant he was either a psycho or had some friends nearby either meant they should be "getting the fuck out of there" the leader so eloquently put. After an hour and a half of a strong pace the road turned towards the towering walls of the decedent cesspool Decimus would now call home. At the gates a fat merchant scrambled out from the shade to his stall as the Frumentarius came into view. A robot waited by the gates and a sniper lounged on a walkway above – light security compared to many of the towns he had passed. Weak, he concluded, grown soft behind the safety of their walls.

"Water, weapons, food and board." The fat man called out to him. "I got all of them, come on son – cheaper than you'll get on the inside." Decimus ignored him and continued on his way – how sweet the victory over these profligates would feel after time among them he considered – if anything they should feel honoured to receive the attention of Caesar and to be pulled kicking and screaming from their pathetic, weak lives. As he drew closer to the gate the robot turned to him.

"Welcome to Megaton. The bomb is perfectly safe, we promise."

* * *

><p><em>Once more please review or give any indication if you liked or disliked this<em>

_I'm sorry to see this story coming to an end but I couldn't see anyway to continue on after Cato's rise without the story dragging and eventually becoming either an abandoned fic or ending at an arbitrary. _

_I am however considering writing other stories in the fallout world - though I'm unsure whether to set it in eithier the Mojave, Capital or a completely OC story set in Texas. I may set a poll up or you can just tell me through the messaging if you like my writing and want to see more_


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